THE GLAD HAIL FOR TORCHY
I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omitted
is lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination.
Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish
it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed.
That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with
the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be
introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls.
But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found
that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how,
but she is.
All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the
summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then
the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and
then,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee,
sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the
papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so
comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot
evening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the
Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona
Hemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--me
here behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin'
fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?
And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with
lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's
nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--just
a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if
there'd been one handy.
As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes
longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low,
wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and
yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves
frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the
name of the place printed underneath.
"Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's too
bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I
wonder what she'd say if----"
B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on
some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off
goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair
behind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a
tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down
snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.
"Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.
"Said pins, dintcher?" says I.
"Why--er--yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."
"Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.
"Oh--er--Torchy," he adds.
"Well?" says I over my shoulder.
"Might one inquire," says he, "is it distress, or only disposition?"
"It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway," says I.
"Ah!" says he, sort of reflective. "Feeling the need of a half
holiday, are you?"
"Humph!" says I. "What's the good of an afternoon off?"
He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin'
tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on another
jaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I was
him. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else who
couldn't, the way he was doin' at me!
"Mr. Robert," says I, spunkin' up sudden, "what's the matter with me
takin' a vacation?"
"Why," says he, "I--I presume it might be arranged. When would you
wish to go?"
"When?" says I. "Why, now--tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stick
out the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick of
the shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!"
It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses I
expect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors. But I guess
Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps his
eyebrows humorous and chuckles.
"That's rather abrupt, isn't it?" says he. "But perhaps--er--just
where is she now, Torchy?"
I grins back sheepish. "Coast of Maine," says I.
"Well, well!" says he. "Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, at
least. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a good
express, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!"
"Mr. Robert," says I, choky, "you--you're I-double-It with me. Thanks."
"My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach,"
says he as we swaps grips.
Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out the
symptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for I
don't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet.
I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and
calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.
"Nothing doing," says the guy. "Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, or
six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Any
choice?"
"Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!" says I. "You got to have 'em. It says
so on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.
"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor,
isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best
I can do for you--drawing rooms all gone."
"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an
upper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."
Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care
if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a
Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit
and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale
buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away
careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along
on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?
"What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroom
next mornin' about six-thirty A. M.
"Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."
"Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tackles
a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m!
They sure can build pie up there!
It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next
joint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was
lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name.
Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from?
Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about
buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair
on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And,
say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after
that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that
with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin'
every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop
on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue
flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.
"Hello, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"
He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from
the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.
"Can't you read?" says he.
"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't see
it from in here."
"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.
"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't
it? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you
who I am."
"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the
Secretary of the Navy?"
"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay
Harbor."
"Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.
"Happen to know Ira?" says I.
"Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"
"Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I
look like I--but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not
Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New
York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr.
Higgins."
"Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."
Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was
joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin'
out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some
scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but
scenery,--rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and
then a few more rocks.
"How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?" says I.
"Government files a new edge on it," says he. "They keep a gang that
does nothin' else."
"Think of that!" says I. "I don't see any lobsters floatin' around,
though."
"Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You
want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in
flocks."
"Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the
painted posts stickin' up out of the water?"
"Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."
Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the
second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell
'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and
how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to
three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As
it was, I guess we split about even.
Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and
channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand.
As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on
the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the
hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.
He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled
shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on
Cunner Point, about three miles up."
"Can I get a trolley?" says I.
"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n
Bath."
"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"
Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the
summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n
Croesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties
that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over
a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to
take you up.
"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet
company. Now, if they was expectin' you----"
"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a
young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me
ain't so chummy as we might be."
"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.
"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,"
says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."
Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says
he. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too."
"Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with
a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"
"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the
place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this
afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."
That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show
me Eb," says I.
He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel
shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub
of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of
business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin'
up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside
with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into
the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense
of smell.
"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like
to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira,
includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.
It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of
gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_!
Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion
one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for
breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some
pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More
perfume comin' my way!
"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.
"Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"
"You couldn't tell the difference," says I.
"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, and
you git a premium."
"You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."
"Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holds
out the plug invitin'.
"Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother I
wouldn't."
"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps do
when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----"
"Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month
of this? Ah, say!"
After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine,
run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an
affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork
hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the
gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back.
By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and
start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I
looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old
yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.
So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb
looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."
Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not
colored quite so vivid.
"Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.
They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the
veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots
Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with
her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and
lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a
young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin'
a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's
laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too,
"nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it,
though.
And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily
brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a
piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw
on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday.
Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private
signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and
squats lower in the boat.
"Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?" says Eb, straightenin' up
and wipin' his hands on his corduroys.
"Who's the party in the tennis outfit?" says I.
"Him?" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. "Must be young Hollister, that owns
the mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, five
more traps to haul, and we're through, Son."
"Let's go haul 'em, then," says I, grabbin' the flywheel.
Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footed
up to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to the
feathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level with
my eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That was
good dope too.
I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky by
half. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for.
My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And,
say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid!
Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,--young chaps in
white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old
guys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressed
sporty and comf'table--and more square feet of sunburn than would cover
Union Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'.
As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wanders
down there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and the
big sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats
dodgin' around in the choppy water. There's a crisp, salty breeze
that's makin' the flags snap, the sun's shinin' bright, and take it
altogether it's some brilliant scene. Only I'm on the outside peekin'
in.
"What's the use?" thinks I. "I'm off my beat up here."
Fin'lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches was
comin' in thick. I must have been there near an hour, swappin' never a
word with anybody, and gettin' lonesomer by the minute, when in from
the harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin' at
the float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump. At the wheel I gets
sight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on his
face. Also he's wearin' a striped blazer.
"Young Hollister, maybe," thinks I. "And he's in for a smash."
Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it's a little late,
for he's got a lot of headway. Honest, I didn't think it out. And I
was achin' to butt into something. I jumped quick, grabbed the bow as
it came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside the
fenders without even scratchin' the varnish.
"Thanks, old chap," says he. "Saved me a bad bump there. I--I'm
greatly obliged."
"You're welcome," says I. "You was steamin' in a little strong."
"I haven't handled the Vixen much myself," says he. "You see, our
boatman's laid up,--sprained ankle,--and I had to come down from the
Rocks for some gasolene."
"Oh! Roarin' Rocks?" says I.
"Yes," says he. "Where's that fool float tender?"
"Just gone into the clubhouse," says I. "Maybe I could keep her from
bumpin' while you're gone."
"By Jove! would you?" says he, handin' over a boathook.
Even then I wasn't layin' any scheme. I helps when they puts the gas
in, and makes myself generally useful. Also I'm polite and respectful,
which seems to make a hit with him.
"Deuced bother," says he, "not having any man. I had a picnic planned
for today too."
"That so?" says I. "Well, I'm no marine engineer, but I'm just killin'
time around here, and if I could help any way----"
"Oh, I say, but that's jolly of you," says he, "I wonder if you would,
for a day or so? My name's Hollister, Payne Hollister."
He wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes me
into it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a little
round canvas hat with "Vixen" on the front, and trots back uptown to
buy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quick
change for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about the
yachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions of
a classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.