Torchy Part 23

in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.

It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked bunch.

"Bobby," says she, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Run on now, Vee," says he. "Told you when I asked you to come that I wasn't a dancing man, y'know."

"Fudge!" says she, stampin' her foot. "You think it's smart to take that pose, don't you? Well, you wait!"

And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,--the slimmest feet and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.

"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers," she goes on. "You just wait!"

"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?" says Bobby.

"Wouldn't I, though!" says she.

That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though.

"Tell ahead," says he. "Who cares? And let's see you get any more dances!"

He's a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin' at him.

I'm so much int'rested in the case that the first thing I know I've b.u.t.ted in with advice.

"Ah, be nice, Claude!" says I. "Dance with the young lady. I would if I was you."

And you can't guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy.

He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to me real majestic and threatenin'.

"You--you----How dare you?" he splutters out.

"There, there!" says I. "Don't get bristle-spined over it. I wa'n't offerin' any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that I'll take it back."

"I--I'll have you dismissed!" he growls.

"Can't do it, Bobby," says I. "I'm no reg'lar tip-chaser. I'm here incog.--doing it for a lark, y'know. Back to your corner, now! There's a lady present."

He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink.

"I hope you're satisfied, Vee," says he. "You would come in here, though! I can't help it if the attendants are insolent to you."

"Pooh!" says Miss Vee. "The young man was only taking my part."

"So?" sneers Bobbie. "I congratulate you on your new champion."

"He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!" she fires back at him.

"Does he?" says Bobby. "Then why don't you get him for a partner?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "G'WAN!" SAYS I, "IT'S A FAIR SWAP."]

"If you don't ask me for this next waltz, I will," says she, tossin' up her chin.

"What a bluff!" says Bobby. "Well, Miss Vee, I'm not going to ask you.

Now!"

Say, it was gettin' more or less personal by that time, and I was wonderin' just how the young lady was goin' to back out of the proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know she's marchin' straight over to where I was.

"Will you give me this next waltz?" says she.

"Say," I gasps, "do you mean it?"

"Certainly I do," says she. "You can dance, can't you?"

"I don't know," says I; "but I can do an East Side spiel."

"Good!" says she. "I know how to do that too. Come on."

"In a minute," says I. "Just hold on until I borrow the young gentleman's evenin' coat."

"Wha--what's that?" snorts Bobby.

"You can be usin' mine for a smokin' jacket," says I. "Peel it off now, and let the fancy vest come along too!"

"I--I won't do it!" says Bobbie.

"Oh, yes, you will," says I, "or else you and me will be mixed up in a rumpus that'll bring the chaperons and special cops in here on the run," and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black vest.

"You're insulting!" says Bobby, gettin' wild-eyed.

"G'wan!" says I. "It's a fair swap. I'll leave it to the young lady."

And when I'd sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn't made any wild guess. There's a twinkle under them long eyelashes that's as good as a go-ahead signal.

"Of course," says she. "It was you who suggested him as a partner, anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!"

"I--I----" he begins.

"Ah, shuck 'em!" says I, startin' for him hasty.

I expects it was the prospects of gettin' rung into a rough and tumble, and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby's mind so sudden. At any rate, inside of a minute more I'm wearin' the pearl-gray waistcoat and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the green and gold ballroom with somebody's pink-costumed heiress hangin' to my left arm.

"One-two-three; one-two-three----Now!" says she, countin' out the time so I shouldn't make any false start.

But, say, I didn't need that. Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about all the dancin' I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like "Yip-I-Addy"

played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was?

Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed maple boards like a pair of summer b.u.t.terflies, pivotin' first one way and then the other, dodgin' in and out among the couples, and givin' an exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin' like a cripples' parade.

First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn't know whether I was waltzin', or havin' a joy ride with some biplane shuffer.