Torchy and Vee Part 18

"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."

"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. You know," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. They slip out now and then. Last night she made her getaway through the bas.e.m.e.nt door. I expect she's back by now."

"Yes," says I, "I expect she is."

And I don't need to ask any more. The mystery of the lovely Louise has been cleared up complete.

First off I was going to tell Ernie all about it, but when I saw him sitting there at his high desk, gazin' sort of blank at nothing at all and kind of smilin' reminiscent, I didn't have the heart. Instead, I asks confidential, as usual:

"Any word yet from Louise?"

"Not yet," says Ernie, "but then----"

"I get you," says I. "And I got to hand it to you, Ernie; you're a cagey old sport, even if you don't look it."

He don't deny. Hadn't I seen him start on his big night? And say, he's gettin' so he can walk past that line of lady typists and give 'em the once over without changin' color in the ears. He's almost skirt broken, Ernie is.

CHAPTER VIII

HOW BABE MISSED HIS STEP

What Babe Cutler was plannin' certainly listened like a swell party--the kind you read about. He was going to round up three other sports like himself, charter a nice comfortable yacht, and spend the winter knockin'

about in the West Indies, with a bunch of bananas always hangin' under the deck awning aft and a cabin steward forward mixing planter's punch every time the sun got over the yard arm.

"The lucky stiff!" thinks I, as I heard him runnin' over some of the details to Mr. Robert, who he thinks can maybe be induced to join.

"Oh, come along, Bob!" says he. "We'll stop off for a look at Palm Beach on the way down, hang up a few days at Knight's Key for shark fishing, then run over to Havana for a week of golf, drop around to Santiago and cheer up Billy Pickens out on his blooming sugar plantation, cross over to Jamaica and have some polo with the military bunch up at Newcastle--little things like that. Besides, we can always have a game of deuces wild going evenings and----"

"No use, Babe," breaks in Mr. Robert. "It can't be done. That sort of thing is all well enough for a foot-loose old bach such as you, but with me it's quite different."

"The little lady at home, eh?" says Babe. "I'll bet she'd be glad to get rid of you for a couple of months."

"Flatterer!" says Mr. Robert. "And I suppose you think I wouldn't be missed from the Corrugated Trust, either?"

"I'll bet a hundred you could hand your job over to Torchy here and the concern would never know the difference," says Babe, winkin' friendly at me. "Anyway, don't turn me down flat. Take a day or so to think it over."

And with that Mr. Cutler climbs into his mink-lined overcoat, slips me a ten spot confidential as he pa.s.ses my desk, and goes breezin' out towards Broadway. The ten, I take it, is a retainer for me to boost the yachtin' enterprise. I shows it to Mr. Robert and grins.

"There's only one Babe," says he. "He'd offer a tip to St. Peter, or suggest matching quarters to see whether he was let in or barred out."

"He's what I'd call a perfect sample of the gay and careless sport,"

says I. "How does it happen that he's escaped the hymeneal noose so long?"

"Because marriage has never been put up to him as a game, a sporting proposition in which you can either win or lose out," says Mr. Robert.

"He thinks it's merely a life sentence that you get for not watching your step. Just as well, perhaps, for Babe isn't what you would call domestic in his tastes. Give him a 'Home, Sweet Home' motto and he'd tack it inside his wardrobe trunk."

I expect that's a more or less accurate description, for Mr. Robert has known him a long time. And yet, you can't help liking Babe. He ain't one of these noisy tin-horns. He dresses as quiet as he talks, and among strangers he'd almost pa.s.s for a shy bank clerk having a day off. He's the real thing though when it comes to pleasant ways of spending time and money; from sailing a 90-footer in a cup race, to qualifying in the second flight at Pinehurst. No shark at anything particular, I understand, but good enough to kick in at most any old game you can propose.

Also he's an original I. W. W. Uh-huh. Income Without Work. That was fixed almost before he was born, when his old man horned in on a big mill combine and grabbed off enough preferred stock to fill a packing case. Maybe you think you have no interest in financin' Babe Cutler's career. But you have. Can't duck it. Every time you eat a piece of bread, or a slice of toast or a bit of pie crust you're contributin' to Babe's dividends. And he knows about as much how flour is made as he does about gettin' up in the night to warm a bottle for little Tootsums. Which isn't Babe's fault any more than it's yours. As he'd tell you himself, if the case was put up to him, it's all in the shuffle.

He must have had some difficulty organizin' his expedition, for that same afternoon, when I eases myself off the 4:03 at Piping Rock--having quit early, as a private sec-de-luxe should now and then--who should show up at the station but Mr. Cutler in his robin's-egg blue sport phaeton with the white wire wheels.

"I say," he says, "didn't Bob come out, too?"

"No," says I. "I think he and Mrs. Ellins have a dinner party on in town."

"Bother!" says Babe. "I was counting on him for an hour or so of billiards and another go at talking up the cruise. We'll land him yet, eh, Torchy? Hop in and I'll run you out home."

So I climbs aboard, Babe opens the cut-out, and we make a skyrocket start.

"How about swinging around the country club and back through the middle road? No hurry, are you?" he asks.

"Not a bit," says I, glancin' at the speedometer, which was touchin'

fifty.

"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel, you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there.

Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, but they're all over the place--climbing on you, mauling you, tripping you up. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngsters are always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep out of the way until dinner."

"I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?"

"Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "But when they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with sticky fingers--no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to think they are all little wonders. And d.i.c.k is just as bad--rushes home early every afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!"

"Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family of your own."

"Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!"

I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shied matrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on Sister Mabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, a wife and kids wouldn't fit in at all.

We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on the back stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams on the emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyond where this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-lined throw-scarf.

"What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back.

"Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch of youngsters with her and--yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!"

"O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must."

As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a look at this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky around this young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle on top of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin'

a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'.

"You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe.

"Heavens, no!" says he.

"But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on.