Wilt Thou Torchy Part 18

"Odd," says he. "I don't remember having seen you before."

"That's right," says I. "You see, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm really representin' the Corrugated Trust and--"

"Don't know it at all," breaks in Waldo.

"That's why I'm here," says I. "Now, here's our proposition."

And say, before he can get his breath or duck under the table, I've spread out the blue-prints and am shootin' the prospectus stuff into him at the rate of two hundred words to the minute.

Yes, I must admit I was feedin' him a cla.s.sy spiel, and I was just throwin' the gears into high-high for a straightaway spurt when all of a sudden I gets the hunch I ain't makin' half the hit I hoped I was.

It's no false alarm, either. T. Waldo's gaze is gettin' sterner every minute, and he seems to be stiffenin' from the neck down.

"I say," he breaks in, "are--are you trying to sell me something?"

"Me?" says I. "Gosh, no! I hadn't quite got to that part, but my idea is to give you a chance to unload something on us. This Apache Creek land of yours."

"Really," says Waldo, "I don't follow you at all. My land?"

"Sure!" says I. "All this shaded pink. That's yours, you know. And as it lays now it's about as useful as an observation car in the subway. But if you'll swap it for preferred stock in our power company--"

"No," says he, crisp and snappy. "I owned some mining stock once, and it was a fearful nuisance. Every few months they wanted me to pay something on it, until I finally had to burn the stuff up."

"That's one way of gettin' rid of b.u.m shares," says I. "But look; this is no flimflam gold mine. This is sure-fire shook.u.m--a sound business proposition backed by one of the--"

"Pardon me," says T. Waldo, glarin' annoyed through the big panes, "but I don't care to have shares in anything."

"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll settle on a cash basis, then. Now, you've got no use for that tract. We have. Course, we can get other land just as good, but yours is the handiest. If you've ever tried to wish it onto anyone, you know you couldn't get a dollar an acre. We'll give you five."

"Please go away," says he.

"Make it six," says I. "Now, that tract measures up about--"

"Tidman," cuts in Mr. Pettigrew, "could you manage to make this young man understand that I don't care to be bothered with such rot?"

Tidman didn't have a chance.

"Excuse me," says I, flashin' Old Hickory's ten thousand dollar check, "but if there's anything overripe about that, just let me know. That's real money, that is. If you want it certified I'll--"

"Stop," says T. Waldo, holdin' up his hand like I was the cross-town traffic. "You must not go on with this silly business chatter. I am not in the least interested. Besides, you are interrupting my tutoring period."

"Your which?" says I, gawpin'.

"Mr. Tidman," he goes on, "is my private tutor. He helps me to study from ten to two every day."

"Gee!" says I. "Ain't you a little late gettin' into college?"

Waldo sighs weary.

"If I must explain," says he, "I prefer to continue improving my mind rather than idle away my days. I've never been to college or to any sort of school. I've been tutored at home ever since I can remember.

I did give it up for a time shortly after the death of my father. I thought that the management of the estate would keep me occupied. But I have no taste for business--none at all. And I found that by leaving my father's investments precisely as they came to me my affairs could be simplified. But one must do something. So I engaged Mr. Tidman.

What if I am nearly thirty? Is that any reason why I should give up being tutored? There is so much to learn! And to-day's period is especially interesting. We were just about getting to Thorwald the Bitter."

"Did you say Biter or Batter?" says I.

"I said Thorwald the Bitter," repeats Pettigrew. "One of the old Norse Vikings, you know."

"Go on, shoot it," says I. "What's the joke?"

"But there's no joke about it," he insists. "Surely you have heard of the Norse Vikings?"

"Not yet," says I. "I got my ear stretched, though."

"Fancy!" remarks T. Waldo, turnin' to Tidman.

Tidman stares at me disgusted, then hunches his shoulders and grunts, "Oh, well!"

"And now," says Pettigrew, "it's nearly time for Epictetus."

Sounded something like lunch to me, but I wasn't takin' any hints. I'd discovered several things that Waldo didn't care for, money being among 'em, and now I was tryin' to get a line on what he did like. So I was all for stickin' around.

"Possibly," suggests Tidman, smilin' sarcastic, "our young friend is an admirer of Epictetus."

"I ain't seen many of the big games this year," says I. "What league is he in?"

"Epictetus," says Waldo, breakin' it to me as gentle as he can, "was a Greek philosopher. We are reading his 'Discourses.'"

"Oh!" says I. "Not so close, was I? Now, what was his line of dope--something like the Dooley stuff?"

Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like they wasn't used to indulgin' in such frivolity. They seemed to enjoy it, though, and the first thing I know I'm bein' put through a sort of highbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft I wear my pink thatch on.

Course, they didn't have to dig very deep into back-number hist'ry or B. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle was needed I admit I played up my part for all it was worth. Honest, they develops into a pair of reg'lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin' the time of their lives discoverin' that I thought Cleopatra must be one of the Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.

"And yet," says Waldo, inspectin' me curious, "your employers intrust you with a ten thousand dollar check."

"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.

"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind is much over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends with a percentage fraction. In England, now, we--"

"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the double doors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.

"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might I have a word with you in--er--in private, sir?"

"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about silly housekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."

"As you like, sir," goes on Peters. "It--it's about the laundress, sir. She's sitting on a man in the bas.e.m.e.nt, sir."

"Wha-a-at?" gasps Waldo.