On With Torchy Part 24

"Oh, I don't pretend to be a daredevil," admits Piddie, with a sudden rush of modesty. "Still, it is a pity Mr. Mallory did not stay long enough to find out the name of this unknown hero, and give it to the world."

"The moral of which is," says I, "that all heroes ought to carry their own press agents with 'em."

We'd threshed it all out, Piddie and me, and I'd gone back to my desk some reluctant, for this jobless waiter was still sheddin' his gloom around the reception room, and I was just thinkin' how it would be to put a screen in front of him, when Mr. Robert and Skid comes out arm in arm, swappin' josh about that banquet that was to be pulled off.

"Of course you'll come." Mr. Robert is insistin'. "Only a few directors, you know. No, no set speeches, or anything like that. But they'll want to hear how you came to get that big order, and about some of the interesting things you saw over there, just as you've told me."

I had hopped up and was holdin' the gate wide open, givin' Skid all the honors, and Mr. Robert was escortin' him out to the elevator, when I notices that this Popover party has got his eye on the boss and is standin' right where he's blockin' the way.

"Hey, Poppy!" says I in a stage whisper. "Back out! Reverse yourself!

Take a sneak!" But of all the muleheads! There he stands, grippin'

his hat, and thinkin' only of that lost job.

"All right," Skid is saying; "but remember now, no floral tributes, or gushy introductions, or sitting in the spotlight for me at this--er--er---- Well, as I'm a living mortal!" He gets this last out after a gasp or two, and then stops stock still, starin' straight in front of him.

"What is it?" says Mr. Robert. "What's up?" And we sees that Skid Mallory has his eyes glued to this waiter shrimp.

"In the name of all that's good," says he, "where did you come from?"

You can't jar Popover, though, by any little thing like that. When he gets an idea in his dome it's a fixture there. "I would wish to speak," says he, "with Mr. Ellins."

"Yes, yes, another time," says Mr. Robert hasty.

"But see here!" says Skid, still gazin' steady. "Don't you remember me? Take a good look now."

Popover gives him a glance and shakes his head. "Maybe I serve you at the club, Sir," says he.

"Club be blowed!" says Skid. "The last time I saw you you were serving a machine gun, six miles east of Mustapha. Isn't that so?"

"Oh, Mustapha!" says Popover, his eyes lightin' up a little. "On the hill just beyond where the bridge was blown up? You came at the night's end. Oh, yes!"

"I knew it!" exclaims Skid. "I'd have bet a thousand--same curly hair, same shoulders, same eyes. Ellins, here's that lone hero I was telling you about. Here!"

"But--hut that's only Mike," says Mr. Robert, gazin' from one to the other. "Used to be a waiter at the club, you know."

"I don't care what he used to be," says Skid, "or what he is now, I want to shake hands with him."

Popover he pinks up and acts foolish about swappin' grips; but Skid insists.

"So you beat 'em out in the end, did you?" Skid goes on. "Just naturally put it all over that whole bunch of Turks, didn't you? But how did it happen?"

"I don't know," says Popover, fingerin' his hat nervous. "I am very busy all the time, and--and I have nothing to eat all night. You see, all other Greek soldiers was hurt; and me, I must stay to keep the Turks from the hill. Very busy time, Sir. And I am not much for fight, anyway."

"Great Scott!" says Skid. "He says he's not much for--but see here, how did it end?"

Popover gives a shoulder shrug. "Once more they run at me after you go," says he, "and then come our brave Greek General with big army and chase Turks away. And the Captain say why am I such big fool as to stay behind. That is all I know. Three weeks ago I am discharged from being soldier. Now I come back here, and I have no more my good job.

I am much sorry."

"Think of that!" breaks out Skid. "Talk about the ingrat.i.tude of Republics! Why, England would have given him the Victoria Cross for that! But can't something or other be done about this job of his?"

"Why, certainly," says Mr. Robert. "Here, let's go back into my office."

"Hey, Popover," says I, steerin' him respectful through the gate.

"Don't forget to tell them about Armina too."

And as the three of 'em streams in, with the waiter in the middle, I turns to find Piddie gazin' at the sight b.u.t.ton-eyed.

"Wa'n't you sayin' how much you'd like to see the lone hero of the hill?" says I. "Well, take a good look. That's him, the squatty one.

Uh-huh. Mike, alias Popover, who quit bein' a waiter to fight for his country, and after he'd licked all the Turks in sight comes pikin' back here to hunt around for his tray again. Say, all of 'em ain't such sc.u.m, are they?"

It was a great old banquet too; for Skid insists that if they must have a conquerin' hero to drink to Mr. Popokoulis is the only real thing in sight. Mike wouldn't stand for a seat at the table, though; so they compromised by havin' him act as head waiter. Skid tells the story just the same, and makes him stand out where they can all see him.

There was some cheerin' done too. Mr. Robert was tellin' me about it only this mornin'.

"And you've got him his old place at the club, eh?" says I.

"No," says he. "I've arranged to buy out a half interest in a florist's shop for Mr. Popokoulis."

"Oh!" says I. "Backin' him for the Armina handicap, eh? It ought to be a cinch. Some chap, that Popover, even if he was a waiter, eh?

It's tough on Piddie, though. This thing has tied all his ideas in double bow-knots."

CHAPTER X

MERRY DODGES A DEAD HEAT

Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said "Sure, Bo,"

careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Sat.u.r.day afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J.

Meredith Stidler.

Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J.

Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair, for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J.

Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch.

You know the kind,--fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest pocket mirror. We ain't got a cla.s.sier dresser in the shop. Not noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special and fittin' snug around the collar.

Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms, or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month.

For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the Corrugated,--just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin'

machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would be missed more.

Yet J. Meredith takes it cheerful. Always has a smile as he pushes through the bra.s.s gate, comin' or goin', and stands all the joshin'

that's handed out to him without gettin' peevish. So when he springs this over-Sunday invite I don't feel like turnin' it down. Course, I'm wise that it's sort of a charity contribution on his part. He puts it well, though.

"It may be rather a dull way for you to pa.s.s the day," says he; "but I'd like to have you come."

"Let's see," says I. "Vincent won't be expectin' me up to Newport until later in the season, the Bradley Martins are still abroad, I've cut the Reggy Vanderbilts, and--well, you're on, Merry. Call it the last of the month, eh?"