On With Torchy Part 27

"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple of gla.s.ses!"

"Well, not exactly," says he. "But I can't take wine. I hardly ever do. It--it goes to my head always. And tonight--well, I couldn't decline. You saw. Then afterward--oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far away from anyone as I could get."

"Too thin, Merry," says I. "That might pa.s.s with me; but with strangers you'd get the laugh."

"But it's true," he goes on. "And I didn't dream anyone could hear me from here."

"Why, you b.o.o.b," says I, "they could hear you a mile off!"

"Really?" says he. "But you don't suppose Vio--I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?"

"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night," says I.

"But--but what will they think?" he gasps breathless.

"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend," says I.

"What's your guess?"

"Oh--oh!" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. "I--I had not thought of that."

"Ah, buck up!" say I. "Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'.

Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty."

He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. "There's a path through the bushes along here somewhere," says he.

"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me," says I.

"We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy."

We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from shadow to shadow, when just as we're pa.s.sin' the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang.

Then out from a second story window floats a voice: "Who is that, please?"

Merry nudges me in the ribs. "Tell them it's you," he whispers.

"Why, it's--it's me--Torchy," says I reluctant.

"Oh! Ah!" says a couple of voices in chorus. Then one of 'em goes on, "The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?"

"Yep," says I. "Same one."

"But it wasn't you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?" comes coaxin' from the window.

"Tell them yes," whispers Merry, nudgin' violent.

"Gwan!" I whispers back. "I'm in bad enough as it is." With that I speaks up before he can stop me, "Not much!" says I. "That was dear Meredith himself."

"Oh-oh!" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between 'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes out. "Young man," says the voice, smooth and persuadin', "please tell us who--that is--which one of us was the serenade intended for?"

This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith.

"Come on, now," says I, hoa.r.s.e and low in his ear. "It's up to you.

Which?"

"Oh, really," he whispers back, "I--I can't!"

"You got to, and quick," says I. "Come now, was it Pansy?"

"No, no!" says he, gaspy.

"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for Violet, of course."

"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice--no chorus this time: just one--and the window is shut.

"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as booked for life."

He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but fades.

And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a fraternal grip.

"It's all right, Torchy," says he. "She--she'll have me--Violet, you know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month."

"But what about Pansy?" says I.

"Oh, she's coming with us, of course," says he. "Really, they're both charming girls."

"Huh!" says I. "That's where you were when I found you. You're past that point, remember."

"Yes, I know," says he. "It was you helped me too, and I wish in some way I could show my----"

"You can," says I. "Leave me the cornet. I might need it some day myself."

CHAPTER XI

THE Pa.s.sING BY OF BUNNY

It's a shame the way some of these popular clubmen is bothered with business. Here was Mr. Robert, only the other day, with an important four-cue match to be played off between four-thirty and dinnertime; and what does the manager of our Chicago branch have to do but go and muss up the schedule by wirin' in that he might have to call for headquarters' advice on that Burlington order maybe after closin' time.

"Oh, pshaw!" remarks Mr. Robert, after he's read the message.

"The simp!" says I. "Guess he thinks the Corrugated gen'ral offices runs night and day shifts, don't he?"

"Very well put," says Mr. Robert. "Still, it means rather a big contract. But, you see, the fellows are counting on me for this match, and if I should---- Oh, but I say, Torchy," he breaks off sudden, "perhaps you have no very important engagement for the early evening?"

"Me?" says I. "Nothing I couldn't scratch. I can shoot a little pool too; but when it comes to balk line billiards I expect I'd be a dub among your crowd."

"Refreshing modesty!" says Mr. Robert. "What I had in mind, however, was that you might wait here for the message from Nixon, while I attend to the match."