BREEZING BY WITH PEGGY
He's a great old scout, Mr. Ellins. But he always knows where he wants
to get off, all right. He don't whisper his ideas on the subject,
either.
"Boy," says he the other mornin' as I answers the buzzer, "I am
expecting two young persons to call this forenoon, two young wards of
mine. Huh! Wards! As though I wasn't busy enough with my own affairs
without---- But never mind. Chandler is the name."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Chandler. Rush 'em right in, shall I?"
"No!" snorts Old Hickory. "What I want you to do is to use a little
sense, if you have any. Now, here! I have a committee meeting at ten;
those K. & T. people will be here at ten-forty-five; and after that I
can't say whether I'll be free or not. Of course I must see the young
nuisances; but meantime I want to forget 'em. I am trusting to you to
work 'em in when they'll be the least bother."
"Got you," says I. "Chink in with Chandlers. Yes, Sir. Anything
more?"
"No. Get out!" he snaps.
Fair imitation of a grouch, eh? But you got to get used to Old
Hickory. Besides, there was some excuse for his bein' peeved, havin' a
pair of kids camp down on him this way. Course I was wise to the other
details. Didn't I take their 'phone message to Mr. Robert only the day
before, and send back the answer for 'em to come on?
Seems this was a case of a second cousin, or something like that, a
nutty college professor, who'd gone and left a will makin' Mr. Ellins a
guardian without so much as askin' by your leave. There was a Mrs.
Chandler; but she don't figure in the guardianship. The youngsters had
been in school somewhere near Boston; but, this bein' the holidays,
what do they do but turn up in New York and express a wild desire to
see dear old Guardy.
"Gee!" thinks I. "They don't know when they're well off."
For Old Hickory ain't got a lot of use for the average young person.
I've heard him express his sentiments on that point. "Impudent,
ill-mannered, selfish, spoiled young barbarians, the boys," says he,
"and the girls aren't much better,--silly, giggling young chatterboxes!"
And the way I has it framed up, this was rather a foxy move of the
young Chandlers, discoverin' their swell New York relations just as the
holiday season was openin'. So I don't figure that the situation calls
for any open-arm motions on my part. No, nothin' like that. I'm here
to give 'em their first touch of frost.
So about eleven-fifteen, as I glances across the brass rail and sees
this pair advancin' sort of uncertain, I'm all prepared to cause a drop
in the mercury. They wa'n't exactly the type I had in mind, though.
What I'd expected was a brace of high school cutups. But these two are
older than that.
The young fellow was one of these big-boned, wide-shouldered chaps,
with a heavy, serious look to his face, almost dull. I couldn't tell
at first look whether he was a live wire or not. No such suspicions
about the girl. She ain't what you'd call a queen, exactly. She's too
tall and her face is too long for that. Kind of a cute sort of face,
though, with rather a wide mouth that she can twist into a weird,
one-sided smile. But after one look at them lively blue eyes you knew
she wasn't walkin' in her sleep. It's my cue, though, to let 'em guess
what nuisances they were.
"May I see Mr. Ellins?" says the young chap.
"Cards," says I.
He produces the pasteboards.
"Oh, yes!" I goes on. "The wards, eh? Marjorie Chandler, Dudley
Winthrop Chandler. Well, you've picked out a busy day, you know."
"Oh, have we?" says Marjorie. "There, Dud! I was afraid we might.
Perhaps we'd better not call, after all."
"Good!" says Dudley. "I didn't want to, anyway. We can just send in
our cards and leave word that we----"
"Ah, can it!" says I. "Mr. Ellins is expectin' you; only he ain't a
man you can walk in on casual."
"But really," puts in Marjorie, "it's just as well if we don't see him."
"Yes, and get me fired for not carryin' out instructions," says I. "My
orders are to work you in when there's a chance."
"Oh, in that case," says Marjorie, "perhaps we had better wait. We
don't wish to cause trouble for anyone, especially such a bright,
charming young----"
"Nix on the josh," says I. "And have a seat while I skirmish."
"Very well, then," says she, screwin' her face up cunnin' and handin'
me one of them crooked smiles.
Say, she pretty near had me goin' right from the start. And as I
tiptoes into the boss's room I sees he ain't doin' anything more
important than signin' letters.
"They're here," says I, "the wards. Is it all right to run 'em in now?"
He grunts, nods his head, and keeps on writin'. So I strolls back to
the reception room.
"All right," says I. "I've fixed it up for you."
"Now, wasn't that sweet in you?" gurgles Marjorie, glancin' sideways at
Brother. I couldn't swear it was a wink, either; but it's one of them
knowin' fam'ly looks, and she follows it up with a ripply sort of a
giggle.
"That's right!" says I. "Have all the fun you want with me; but I'd
warn you to ditch the mirth stuff while you're on the carpet. Mr.
Ellins don't like it."
"How interesting!" says Marjorie. "Dudley, I hope you understand. We
must ditch the mirth stuff."
They swaps another grin at that, and I have a suspicion I'm bein'
kidded. Just for that too I decides to stick around while they're
gettin' theirs from Old Hickory.
"This way," says I cold and haughty, as I tows 'em into the private
office.
Mr. Ellins lets 'em stand there a minute or so without sayin' a word,
and then he turns and looks 'em over deliberate. "Humph!" he grunts.
"Thought you were younger."
"Yes, Sir," says Marjorie, "we--er--we were at one time."
Old Hickory shoots a quizzin' glance at her; but there ain't the ghost
of a smile on her face.
"Huh!" says he. "I've no doubt. And I presume that in due course
you'll be older. Having agreed on that, perhaps you will tell me what
you're doing in New York?"
Marjorie starts in to give him the answer to that; but Dudley shakes
his head at her and takes the floor himself. "You see, Sir," says he
real respectful, "Mother's abroad this winter, and when we were asked
to visit friends on Long Island we thought----"
"Amy abroad, is she?" breaks in Mr. Ellins. "How does that happen?"
"The Adamses took her with them to Egypt," says Dudley. "They are old
friends of ours."
"Humph!" says Old Hickory. "Your mother must be rather popular?"
"Oh, everyone likes Mama," put in Marjorie. "She's asked around
everywhere."
"Yes, yes, I've no doubt," says he. "As I remember her, she was rather
a--but we won't go into that. Did you come to consult me about
anything in particular?"
"No indeed," says Marjorie. "But you've been so good to bother about
our affairs, and you've done such wonders with the little property poor
Dad left, that we thought, as we were so near, we ought to----"
"We wanted," breaks in Dudley, "to call and thank you personally for
your kindness. You have been awfully kind, Sir."
"Think so, do you?" says Mr. Ellins. "Well, is that all?"
"Yes," says Marjorie; "only--only--oh, Dud, I'm going to do it!" And
with that she makes a rush, lets out a giggle or two, grabs Old Hickory
in a perfectly good hug, and kisses him twice on his bald spot.
He don't even have a chance to struggle, and before he can get out a
word it's all over and she has backed off, givin' him the full benefit
of one of them twisty smiles. I was lookin' for him to blow up for
fair at that. He don't though.
"There, there!" says he. "Not in the least necessary, you know. But
if it was something you had to get out of your system, all right. So
you've been visiting, eh? Now, what?"
"Why, Marjorie's going back to her school, Sir," says Dudley, "and I to
college."
"Before the holidays are over?" says Mr. Ellins.
"Oh, we don't mind," says Marjorie. "We don't want to go home and open
up the house; for we should miss Mother so much."
"Suppose you finish out your vacation with us, then?" suggests Old
Hickory.
"Oh, thank you, Sir," says Dudley; "but we----"
"Mother wrote us, you see," breaks in Marjorie, "that we mustn't think
of bothering you another bit."
"Who says you're a bother?" he demands. "At this time of year I like
to have young folks around--if they're the right kind."
"But I'm not sure we are the right kind," says Marjorie. "I--I'm not
very serious, you know; and Dud's apt to be noisy. He thinks he can
sing."
At which Dudley gets fussed and Old Hickory chuckles.
"I'll take a chance," says Mr. Ellins. "If I'm to be your guardian, I
ought to know you better. So you two trot right up to the house and
prepare to stay the week out. Here, Torchy! 'Phone for the limousine.
No, not a word, young woman! I haven't time to discuss it. Clear out,
both of you! See you at dinner."
"There!" says Marjorie as a partin' shot. "I just knew you were an old
dear!"
"Stuff!" protests Mr. Ellins. "'Old bear,' is more like it."
And me, I picks up a new cue. I escorts 'em out to the gen'ral office
with all the honors. "I'll have that car down in a jiffy, Miss," says
I.
"Oh, thank you," says Marjorie. "And if you think of anything we ought
to ditch in the meantime--"
"Ah, what's the use rubbin' it in on me," says I, "after the way you
put it over Mr. Ellins? I don't count. Besides, anybody that fields
their position like you do has got me wearin' their button for keeps."
"Really?" says she. "I shall remember that, you know; and there's no
telling what dreadful thing I may do before I go. Is there, Dud?"
"Oh, quit it, Peggy!" says he. "Behave, can't you?"
"Certainly, Brother dear," says she, runnin' her tongue out at him.
Ever see anyone who could make a cute play of that? Well, Marjorie
could, believe me!
Funny, though, the sudden hit them two seemed to make with Old Hickory.
Honest, the few days they was around the house his disposition clears
up like coffee does when you stir in the egg. I heard him talkin' to
Mr. Robert about 'em, how well brought up and mannerly they was. He
even unloads some of it on me, by way of suggestin' 'em as models.
You'd most think he'd trained 'em himself.
Bein' chased up to the house on so many errands, I had a chance to get
the benefit of some of this improvin' influence. And it was kind of
good, I admit, to watch how prompt Dudley hops up every time any older
party comes into the room; and how sweet Marjorie is to everybody, even
the butler. They was just as nice to each other too,--Brother helpin'
Sister on with her wraps, and gettin' down on his knees to put on her
rubbers; while Marjorie never forgets to thank him proper, and pat him
chummy on the cheek.
"Gee!" thinks I. "A sister like that wouldn't be so bad to have
around."
Course, I knew this was comp'ny manners, exhibition stuff; but all the
same it was kind of inspirin' to see. It's catchin' too. I even finds
myself speakin' gentle to Piddie, and offerin' to help Mr. Ellins with
his overcoat.
All of which lasts until here one afternoon, as I'm waitin' in the
Ellins' lib'ry for some presents I'm to deliver, when the spell is
shattered. I'd heard 'em out in the hall, talkin' low and earnest, and
next thing I know they've drifted in where I am and have opened up a
lively debate.
"Pooh!" says Marjorie. "You can't stop me."
"See here, Peggy!" comes back Dudley. "Didn't Mother say I was to look
after you?"
"She didn't tell you to be so everlasting bossy," says Sister.
"I'm not bossy," comes back Dudley.
"You are so!" says she. "Old fuss budget! Stewcat!"
"Rattlehead!" says Dudley.
"Don't mind me," I breaks in. "I'm havin' my manners improved."
All that brings out, though, is a glance and a shoulder shrug, and they
proceed with the squabble.
"Dud Chandler," says Marjorie determined, "I am going to drive the car
today! You did yesterday for an hour."
"That's entirely different," says Dudley. "I'm used to it, and Henry
said I might."
"And Henry says I may too--so there!" says Marjorie. "And you know I'm
just crazy to try it on Fifth Avenue."
"You'd look nice, wouldn't you?" says Brother scornful. "A limousine!"
"But Bud Adams let me drive theirs; in Boston too," protests Marjorie.
"Bud Adams is a bonehead, then," says Dudley.
"Dudley Chandler," snaps Sister, her eyes throwin' off sparks, "don't
you dare talk that way about my friends!"
"Huh!" says Brother. "If there ever was a boob, that Bud Adams is----"
Say, there's only a flash and a squeal before Sister has landed a smack
on his jaw and has both hands in his hair. Looked like a real
rough-house session, right there in the lib'ry, when there comes a call
for me down the stairs from Mrs. Ellins. She wants to know if I'm
ready.
[Illustration: Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.]
"Waitin' here, Ma'am," says I, steppin' out into the hall.
"And Marjorie and Dudley?" says she. "Are the dear young folks ready
too?"
"I'll ask 'em," says I. And with that I dodges hack where they're
standin' glarin' at each other. "Well," says I, "is it to be a go to a
finish, or----"
"Come, Marjorie," says Dudley, "be decent."
"I--am going to do it!" announces Marjorie.
"Mule!" hisses Dudley.
And that's the status quo between these two models when we starts for
the car. Marjorie makes a quick break and plants herself in front by
the chauffeur, leavin' Brother to climb inside with me and the bundles.
He grits his teeth and murmurs a few remarks under his breath.
"Some pep to that sister of yours, eh?" says I.
"She's an obstinate little fool!" says Dudley. "Look at that, now! I
knew she would!"
Yep, she had. We're no sooner under way than the obligin' Henry slides
out of his seat and lets Miss Marjorie slip in behind the wheel. She
can drive a car all right too. You ought to see her throw in the high
and go beatin' it down the avenue, takin' signals from the traffic cops
at crossing, skinnin' around motor busses, and crowdin' out a fresh
taxi driver that tried to hog a corner on her. Nothin' timid or
amateurish either about the way she handled that ten-thousand-dollar
gas wagon of Old Hickory's. Where I'd be jammin' on both brakes and
callin' for help, she just breezes along like she had the street all to
herself.
Meantime Brother is sittin' with both feet braced and one hand on the
door, now and then sighin' relieved as we scrape through a tight place.
But we'd been down quite a ways and was part way back, headed for
Riverside Drive, and was rollin' along merry too, when all of a sudden
a fruit faker's wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there's
a bump and a crash, and there we are, with a spokeless wooden wheel
draped jaunty over one mud guard, the asphalt strewed with oranges, and
int'rested spectators gatherin' gleeful from all quarters.
Looks like a bad mess too. The old plug of a horse is down, kickin'
the stuffin' out of the harness, and a few feet off is the huckster,
huddled up in a heap like a bag of meal. Course, there's a cop on the
spot. He pushes in where Dudley is tryin' to help the wagon driver up,
takes one look at the wreck, and then flashes his little notebook. He
puts down our license number, calls for the owner's name, prods the
wagon man without result, tells us we're all pinched, and steps over to
a convenient signal box to ring up an ambulance. Inside of three
minutes we're the storm center of a small mob, and there's two other
cops lookin' us over disapprovin'.
"Take 'em all to the station house," says one, who happens to be a
roundsman.
That didn't listen good to me; so I kind of sidles off from our group.
It just struck me that it might be handy to have someone on the outside
lookin' in. But at that I got to the station house almost as soon as
they did. The trio was lined up before the desk Sergeant. Miss
Marjorie's kind of white, but keepin' a stiff lip over it; while Dudley
is holdin' one hand and pattin' it comfortin'.
"Well, who was driving?" is the first thing the Sergeant wants to know.
"If you please, Sir," speaks up Dudley, "I was."
"Why, Dudley!" says Peggy, openin' her eyes wide. "You know----"
"Hush up!" whispers Brother.
"Sha'nt!" says Marjorie. "I was driving, Mr. Officer."
"Rot!" says Dudley. "Pay no attention to her, Sergeant."
"Suit yourself," says the Sergeant. "I'd just as soon lock up two as
one. Then we'll be sure."
"There! You see!" says Brother. "You aren't helping any. Now keep
out, will you?"
"But, Dudley----" protests Marjorie.
"That'll do," says the Sergeant. "You'll have plenty of time to talk
it over afterwards. Hospital case, eh? Then we can't take bail.
Names, now!"
And it's while their names are bein' put on the blotter that I slides
out, hunts up a pay station, and gets Mr. Robert on the 'phone.
"Better lug along a good-sized roll," says I, after I've explained the
case, "and start a lawyer or two this way. You'll need 'em."
"I will," says Mr. Robert. "And you'll meet me at the station, will
you?"
"Later on," says I. "I want to try a little sleuthin' first."
You see, I'd spotted the faker's name on the wagon license, and it
occurs to me that before any of them damage-suit shysters get to him it
would be a good scheme to discover just how bad he was bunged up. So
my bluff is that it's an uncle of mine that's been hurt. By pushin' it
good and hard too, and insistin' that I'd got to see him, I gets clear
into the cot without bein' held up. And there's the victim, snoozin'
peaceful.
"Gee!" says I to the nurse, sniffin' the atmosphere. "Had to brace him
up with a drink, did you?"
She smiles at that. "Hardly," says she. "He had attended to that, or
he wouldn't be in here. This is the alcoholic ward, you know."
"Huh!" says I. "Pickled, was he? But is he hurt bad?"
"Not at all," says she. "He will be all right as soon as he's sober."
Did I smoke it back to the station house? Well, some! And Mr. Robert
was there, talkin' to two volunteer witnesses who was ready to swear
the faker was drivin' on the wrong side of the street and not lookin'
where he was goin'.
"How could he," says I, "when he was soused to the ears?"
Course, it took some time to convince the Sergeant; but after he'd had
word from the hospital he concludes to accept a hundred cash, let
Dudley go until mornin', and scratch Marjorie's name off the book.
Goin' back to the house we four rides inside, with Henry at the wheel.
"I'm awfully sorry, Dud," says Marjorie, snugglin' up to Brother,
"but--but it was almost worth it. I didn't know you could be so--so
splendid!"
"Stow it, Peggy," says Dudley. "You're a regular brick!"
"No, I'm not," says she. "And think what Mr. Ellins will say!
"There, there!" says Mr. Robert soothin'. "You were not to blame. I
will have someone see the fellow in the morning and settle the damage,
however. There's no need to trouble Father about it, none in the
least."
"Besides, Peggy," adds Dudley, "I'm the one the charge is made against.
So butt out."
Looked like it was all settled that way too, and that Old Hickory's
faith in his model wards wa'n't to be disturbed. But when we pulls up
at the house there he is, just goin' up the front steps.
"Ah!" says he, beamin'. "There you are, eh? And how has my little
Peggy been enjoying herself today?"
"Mr. Ellins," says she, lookin' him square in the eye, "you mustn't
call me your Peggy any more. I've just hit a man. He's in the
hospital."
"You--you hit someone!" gasps Old Hickory, starin' puzzled at her.
"What with?"
"Why, with the car," says she. "I was driving. Dudley tried to stop
me; but I was horrid about it. We had a regular fight over it. Then I
coaxed Henry to let me, and--and this happened. Don't listen to
Dudley. It was all my fault."
"Wow!" I whispers to Mr. Robert. "Now she's spilled the beans!"
Did she? Say, I wa'n't in on the fam'ly conference that follows, but I
gets the result from Mr. Robert next day, after he's been to court and
seen Dudley's case dismissed.
"No, the young folks haven't been sent away," says he. "In fact,
Father thinks more of them than ever. He's going to take 'em both
abroad with him next summer."
Wouldn't that smear you, though? Say, I wish someone would turn me
loose with a limousine!