SHOWING GILKEY THE WAY
I got to say this about Son-in-Law Ferdie: He's a help! Not constant,
you know; for there's times when it seems like his whole scheme of
usefulness was in providin' something to hang a pair of shell-rimmed
glasses on, and givin' Marjorie Ellins the right to change her name. But
outside of that, and furnishin' a comic relief to the rest of the
fam'ly, blamed if he don't come in real handy now and then.
Last Friday was a week, for a sample. I meets up with him as he's
driftin' aimless through the arcade, sort of caromin' round and round,
bein' bumped by the elevator rushers and watched suspicious by the floor
detective.
"What ho, Ferdie!" I sings out, grabbin' him by the elbow and swingin'
him out of the line of traffic. "This ain't no place to practice the
maxixe."
"I--I beg--oh, it's you, Torchy, is it?" says he, sighin' relieved.
"Where do I go to send a telegram?"
"Why," says I, "you might try the barber shop and file it with the
brush boy, or you could wish it on the candy-counter queen over there
and see what would happen; but the simple way would be to step around to
the W. U. T. window, by the north exit, and shove it at Gladys."
"Ah, thanks," says he, "North exit, did you say? Let's see, that
is--er----"
"'Bout face!" says I, takin' him in tow. "Now guide right! Hep, hep,
hep--parade rest--here you are! And here's the blank you write it on.
Now go to it!"
"I--er--but I'm not quite sure," protests Ferdie, peelin' off one of his
chamois gloves, "I'm not quite sure of just what I ought to say."
"That bein' the case," says I, "it's lucky you ran into me, ain't it?
Now what's the argument?"
Course it was a harrowin' crisis. Him and Marjorie had got an invite
some ten days ago to spend the week-end at a swell country house over on
Long Island. They'd hemmed and hawed, and fin'lly ducked by sendin' word
they was so sorry, but they was expectin' a young gent as guest about
then. The answer they got back was, "Bring him along, for the love of
Mike!" or words to that effect. Then they'd debated the question some
more. Meanwhile the young gent had canceled his date, and the time has
slipped by, and here it was almost Saturday, and nothin' doing in the
reply line from them. Marjorie had thought of it while they was havin'
lunch in town, and she'd chased Ferdie out to send a wire, without
tellin' him what to say.
"And you want someone to make up your mind for you, eh?" says I. "All
right. That's my long suit. Take this: 'Regret very much unable to
accept your kind invitation'--which might mean anything, from a previous
engagement to total paralysis."
"Ye-e-es," says Ferdie, hangin' his bamboo stick over his left arm and
chewin' the penholder thoughtful, "but Marjorie'll be awfully
disappointed. I think she really does want to go."
"Ah, squiffle!" says I. "She'll get over it. Whose joint is it, anyway?"
"Why," says he, "the Pulsifers', you know."
"Eh?" says I. "Not the Adam K.'s place, Cedarholm?"
Ferdie nods. And, say, it was like catchin' a chicken sandwich dropped
out of a clear sky. The Pulsifers! Didn't I know who was there? I did!
I'd had a bulletin from a very special and particular party, sayin' how
she'd be there for a week, while Aunty was in the Berkshires. And up to
this minute my chances of gettin' inside Cedarholm gates had been null
and void, or even worse. But now--say, I wanted to be real kind to
Ferdie!
"One or two old friends of Marjorie's are to be there," he goes on
dreamy.
"They are?" says I. "Then that's diff'rent. You got to go, of course."
"But--but," says he, "only a moment ago you----"
"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "You don't want Marjorie grumpin' around for the
next week, do you, wishin' she'd gone, and layin' it all to you?"
Ferdie blinks a couple of times as the picture forms on the screen.
"That's so," says he. "She would."
"Then gimme that blank," says I. "Now here, how's this, 'Have at last
arranged things so we can come. Charmed to accept'? Eh?"
"But--but there's Baby's milk," objects Ferdie. "Marjorie always watches
the nurse sterilize it, you know."
"Do up a gallon before you leave," says I.
"It's such a puzzling place to get to, though," says Ferdie. "I'm sure
we'd never get on the right train."
"Whadye mean, train," says I. "Ah, show some class! Go in your
limousine."
"So we could," says Ferdie. "But then, you know, they'll be expectin' us
to bring an extra young man."
"They needn't be heartbroken over that," says I. "You didn't say who he
was, did you?"
"Why, no," says Ferdie; "but----"
"Since you press me so hard," says I, "I'll sub for him. Guess you need
me to get you there, anyway."
"By Jove!" says Ferdie, as the proposition percolates through the
hominy. "I wonder if----"
"Never waste time wonderin'," says I. "Take a chance. Here, sign your
name to that; then we'll go hunt up Marjorie and tell her the glad
news."
Ferdie was still in a daze when we found the other three-quarters of the
sketch, and Marjorie was some set back herself when I springs the
scheme. But she's a good sport, Marjorie is, and if she was hooked up to
a live one she'd travel just as lively as the next heavyweight.
"Oh, let's!" says she, clappin' her hands. "You know we haven't been
away from home overnight for an age. And Edna Pulsifer's such a dear,
even if her father is a grouchy old thing. We'll take Torchy along too.
What do you say, Ferdie?"
Foolish question! Ferdie was still dazed. And anyhow she had said it
herself.
So that's how it happens I'm one of the chosen few to be landed under
the Cedarholm porte-cochère that Saturday afternoon. Course the
Pulsifers ain't reg'lar old fam'ly people, like Ferdie's folks. They
date back to about the last Broadway horse-car period, I understand,
when old Adam K. begun to ship his Cherryola dope in thousand-case lots.
Now, you know, it's all handled for him by the drug trust, and he only
sits by the safety-vault door watchin' the profits roll in. But with his
name still on every label you could hardly expect the Pulsifers to
qualify for Mrs. Astor's list.
Seems Edna went to the same boardin' school as Marjorie and Vee, though,
and neither of 'em ever thinks of throwin' Cherryola at her. And as far
as an establishment goes, Cedarholm is the real thing. Gave me quite
some thrill to watch two footmen in silver and baby blue pryin' Marjorie
out of the limousine.
"Gee!" thinks I, glancin' around at the deep verandas, the swing seats,
and the cozy corner nooks. "If Vee and I can't get together for a few
chatty words among all this, then I'm a punk plottist!"
These country house joints are so calm and peaceful too! It's a wonder
anybody could work up a case of nerves, havin' this for a steady thing.
But Edna and Mrs. Pulsifer acted sort of restless and jumpy. She's a
tall, thin, hollow-eyed dame, Mrs. Pulsifer is, with gray hair and a
smooth, easy voice. Miss Edna must take more after her Pa; for she's
filled out better, and while she ain't what you'd call mug-mapped, she
has one of these low-bridge noses and a lot of oily, dark red hair that
she does in a weird fashion of her own with a side part. Seems shy and
bashful too, except when she snuggles up on the lee side of Marjorie and
trails off with her.
The particular party I was strainin' my eyesight for ain't in evidence,
though, and all the hint I gets of her bein' there was hearin' a ripply
laugh at the far end of the hallway when she and Marjorie go to a fond
clinch. That was some comfort, though,--she was in the house!
As I couldn't very well go scoutin' around whistlin' for her to come
out, I does the next best thing. After bein' shown my room I drifts
downstairs and out on the lawn where I'd be some conspicuous. Course I
wa'n't suggestin' anything, but if somebody should happen to see me and
judge that I was lonesome, they might wander out that way too. Sure
enough somebody did,--Ferdie.
"I thought you had to take a nap before dinner," says I, maybe not so
cordial.
"Bother!" says he. "There's no such thing as that possible with those
three girls chattering away in the next room."
"Well, they ain't been together for some time, I expect," says I.
"It's worse than usual," says Ferdie. "A man in the case, you might
know."
"Eh?" says I, prickin' up my ears. "Whose man?"
"Oh, Edna Pulsifer's absurd ditch digger," says Ferdie. "He's a young
engineer, you know, that she's been interested in for a couple of years.
Her father put a stop to it once; kept her in Munich for ten months--and
that's a perfectly deadly place out of season, you know. But it doesn't
seem to have done much good."
I grins. Surprisin' how cheerful I could be so long as it was a case of
Miss Pulsifer's young man. I pumps the whole tale out of Ferdie,--how
this Mr. Bert Gilkey--cute name too--had been writin' her letters all
the time from out West, how he'd been seized with a sudden fit, wired on
that he must see her once more, and had rushed East. Then how Pa
Pulsifer had caught 'em lalligaggin' out by the hedge, had talked real
rough to Gilkey, and ordered him never to muddy his front doormat again.
"And now," goes on Ferdie, "he sends word to Edna that he means to try
it once more, no matter what happens, and everyone is all stirred up."
"So that accounts for the nervous motions, eh?" says I. "What does Pa
Pulsifer have to say to this defi?"
"Goodness!" says Ferdie, shudderin'. "He doesn't know. No one dares tell
him a word. If he found out--well, it would be awful!"
"Huh!" says I. "One of these fam'ly ringmasters, is he?"
That was it, and from Ferdie's description I gathered that old Adam K.
was a reg'lar domestic tornado, once he got started. Maybe you know the
brand? And it seems Pa Pulsifer was the limit. So long as things went
his way he was a prince,--right there with the jolly haw-haw, fond of
callin' wifey pet names before strangers, and posin' as an easy
mark,--but let anybody try to pull off any programme that didn't jibe
with his, and black clouds rolled up sudden in the West.
"I do hope," goes on Ferdie, "that nothing of that sort occurs while we
are here."
So did I, for more reasons than one. What I wanted was peace, and plenty
of it, with Vee more or less disengaged.
Nothin' could have been more promisin' either than the openin' of that
first dinner party. Pa Pulsifer had showed up about six o'clock from the
Country Club, with his rugged, hand-hewed face tinted up cheery. Some of
it was sunburn, and some of it was rye, I expect, but he was glad to see
all of us. He patted Marjorie on the cheek, pinched Vee by the ear, and
slapped Ferdie on the back so hearty he near knocked the breath out of
him. So far as our genial host could make it, it was a gay and festive
scene. Best of all too, I'd been put next to Vee, and I was just workin'
up to exchangin' a hand squeeze under the tablecloth when, right in the
middle of one of Pa Pulsifer's best stories, there floats in through the
open windows a crash that makes everybody sit up. It sounds like
breakin' glass.
"Hah!" snorts Pulsifer, scowlin' out into the dark. "Now what in blazes
was that?"
"I--I think it must have been something in the kitchen, Dear," says Mrs.
Pulsifer. "Don't mind."
"But I do mind," says he. "In the first place, it wasn't in the kitchen
at all, and if you'll all excuse me, I'll just see for myself."
Meanwhile Edna has turned pale, Marjorie has almost choked herself with
a bread stick, and Ferdie has let his fork clatter to the floor. Ma
Pulsifer is bitin' her lip; but she's right there with the soothin'
words.
"Please, Dear," says she, "let me go. They want you to finish your
story."
It was a happy touch, that last. Pa Pulsifer recovers his napkin,
settles back in his chair, and goes on with the tale, while Mother slips
out quiet. She comes back after a while, springs a nervous little
laugh, and announces that it was only the glass in one of the hotbed
frames.
"Some stupid person taking a short cut across the grounds, I suppose,"
says she.
Didn't sound very convincin' to me; but Pulsifer had got started on
another boyhood anecdote, and he let it pass. I had a hunch, though,
that Mrs. Pulsifer hadn't told all. I caught a glance between her and
Edna, and some flashes between Edna and Vee, and I didn't need any sixth
sense to feel that something was in the air.
No move was made, though, until after coffee had been served in the
lib'ry and Pa Pulsifer was fittin' his fav'rite Harry Lauder record on
the music machine.
First Mrs. Pulsifer slips out easy. Next Edna follows her, and after
them Marjorie and Vee, havin' exchanged some whispered remarks,
disappears too. Maybe it was my play to stick it out with Ferdie and the
old boy, but I couldn't see any percentage in that, with Vee gone; so I
wanders casual into the hall, butts around through the music room,
follows a bright light at the rear, and am almost run down by Marjorie
hurrying the other way sleuthy.
"Oh!" she squeals. "It's you, is it, Torchy? S-s-s-sh!"
"What you shushin' about?" says I.
"Oh, it's dreadful!" puffs Marjorie. "He--he's come!"
"That Gilkey guy?" says I.
"Ye-e-es," says she. "But--but how did you know?"
"I'm a seventh son, born with a cowlick," says I. "Was it Gilkey made
his entrance through the cucumber frame?"
It was. Also he'd managed to cut himself in the ankles and right wrist.
They had him in the kitchen, patchin' him up now, and they was all
scared stiff for fear Pa Pulsifer would discover it before they could
send him away.
"He'll be a nut if he don't," says I, "with all you women out here. Your
game is to chase back and keep Pulsifer interested."
"I suppose you're right," says Marjorie. "Let's tell them."
So I follows into the big kitchen, where I finds the disabled Romeo
propped up in a chair, with the whole push of 'em, includin' the fat
cook, a couple of maids, and the butler, all tryin' to bandage him in
diff'rent spots. He's a big, gawky-lookin' young gent, with a thick crop
of pale hair and a solemn, serious look on his face, like he was one of
the kind that took everything hard. As soon as Marjorie gives 'em my
hint about goin' back to Father there's a gen'ral protest.
"Oh, I can't do it!" says Edna.
"He would notice at once how nervous I am," groans Mrs. Pulsifer.
"But you don't want him walking out here, do you?" demands Marjorie.
That settled 'em. They bunched together panicky and started back for the
lib'ry.
"I'll stay and attend to the getaway," says I. "Nobody'll miss me."
"Thank you," says Gilkey; "but I'm not sure I wish to go away. I came to
see Edna, you know."
"So I hear," says I. "Unique idea of yours too, rollin' in the hotbeds
first."
"I--I was only trying to avoid meeting Mr. Pulsifer," says he;
"exploring a bit, you see. I could hear voices in the dining-room; but I
couldn't quite look in. There was a little shed out there, though, and
by climbing on that I could get a view. That was how I lost my balance."
"Before you go callin' again," says I, "you ought to practice roostin'
in the dark. Say, the old man must have thrown quite a scare into you
last time."
"I am not afraid of Mr. Pulsifer, not a bit," says he.
"Well, well!" says I. "Think of that!"
"Anyway," says he, "I just wasn't goin' to be driven off that way.
It--it isn't fair to either of us."
"Then it's a clear case with both of you, is it?" says I.
"We are engaged," says Gilkey, "and I don't care who knows it! It's not
her money I'm after, either. We don't want a dollar from Mr. Pulsifer.
We--we just want each other."
"Now you're talkin'!" says I; for, honest, the simple, slushy way he
puts it across sort of wins me. And if that was how the case stood, with
Edna longin' for him, and him yearnin' for Edna, why shouldn't they? If
I'm any judge, Edna wouldn't find another right away who'd be so crazy
about her, and anyone who could discover charms about Gilkey ought to be
rewarded.
"See here!" says I. "Why not sail right in there, look Father between
the eyes, and hand that line of dope out to him as straight as you gave
it to me?"
He gawps at me a second, like I'd advised him to jump off the roof.
"Do--do you think I ought?" says he.
I has to choke back a chuckle. Wanted my advice, did he? Well, say, I
could give him a truckload of that!
"It depends," says I, "on how deep the yellow runs in you. Course it's
all right for you to register this leader about not bein' scared of him.
You may think you ain't, but you are all the same; and as long as you're
in that state you're licked. That's the big trouble with most of
us,--bein' limp in the spine. We're afraid of our jobs, afraid of what
the neighbors will say, afraid of our stomachs, afraid of to-morrow. And
here you are, prowlin' around on the outside, gettin' yourself messed
up, and standin' to lose the one and only girl, all because an old stuff
like Pulsifer says 'Boo!' at you and tells you to 'Scat!' Come on now,
better let me lead you out and see you safe through the gate."
Course that was proddin' him a little rough, but I wanted to bring this
thing to a head somehow. Made Gilkey squirm in his chair too. He begins
rollin' his trousers down over the bandages and struggles into his coat.
"I suppose you're right," says he. "I--I think I will go in and see Mr.
Pulsifer."
"Wha-a-at?" says I. "Now?"
"Why not?" says he, pushin' through the swing door.
"Hey!" I calls out, jumpin' after him. "Better let me break it to 'em in
there."
"As you please," says Gilkey; "only let's have no delay."
So I skips across the hall and into the lib'ry, where they're all makin'
a stab at bein' chatty and gay, with Pa Pulsifer in the center.
"Excuse me," says I, "but there's a young gent wants a few words with
Mr. Pulsifer."
"What's that?" growls Adam K., glarin' about suspicious at the gaspy
circle. "What young man?"
"Why," says I, "it's----" But then in he stalks.
"Oh, Herbert!" sobs Edna, makin' a wild grab at Marjorie for support.
As for Pa Pulsifer, his eyes get stary, the big vein in the middle of
his forehead swells threatenin', and his bushy white eyebrows seem to
bristle up.
"You!" he snorts. "How did you get in here, Sir?"
"Through the kitchen," says Gilkey. "I came to tell you that----"
"Stop!" roars Pulsifer, stampin' his foot and bunchin' his fists
menacin'. "You can't tell me anything, not a word, you--you
good-for-nothing young scoundrel! Haven't I warned you never to step
foot in my house again? Didn't I tell you----"
Well, it's the usual irate parent stuff, only a little more wild and
ranty than anything Belasco would put over. He abuses Gilkey up and
down, threatens him with all kinds of things, from arrest to sudden
death, and gets purple in the face doin' it. While Gilkey, he just
stands there, takin' it calm and patient. Then, when there comes a lull,
he remarks casual:
"If that is all, Sir, I wish to say to you that Edna and I are engaged,
and that I intend to marry her early next week."
Wow! That's the cue for another explosion. It starts in just as fierce
as the first; but it don't last so long, and towards the end Pa Pulsifer
is talkin' husky and puffing hard.
"Go!" he winds up. "Get out of my house before I--I----"
"Oh, I say," breaks in Gilkey, "before you do what?"
"Throw you out!" bellows Pulsifer.
"Don't be absurd," says Gilkey, statin' it quiet and matter of fact.
"You couldn't, you know. Besides, it isn't being done."
And it takes Pa Pulsifer a full minute before he can choke down his
temper and get his wind again. Then he advances a step or so, points
dramatic to the door, and gurgles throaty:
"Will--you--get--out?"
"No," says Gilkey. "I came to see Edna. I've had no dinner either, and
I'd like a bite to eat."
Pulsifer stood there, not two feet from him, glarin' and puffin', and
tryin' to decide what to do next; but it's no use. He'd made his grand
roarin' lion play, which had always scared the tar out of his folks, and
he'd responded to an encore. Yet here was this mild-eyed young gent
with the pale hair and the square jaw not even wabbly in the knees from
it.
"Come, Edna," says Gilkey, holdin' out a hand to her. "Let's go into the
dining-room."
"But--but see here!" gasps Pa Pulsifer, makin' a final effort.
"I--I----"
"Oh, hush up!" says Gilkey, turnin' away weary. "Come, Edna."
And Edna, she went; also Mrs. Pulsifer; likewise Vee and Marjorie. Trust
women for knowin' when a bluff has been called. I expect they was wise,
two or three minutes before either me or Gilkey, that Pa Pulsifer was
beat. I stayed long enough to see him slump into an easy-chair, his
under lip limp and a puzzled look in his eyes, like he was tryin' to
figure out just what had hit him. And over by the fireplace is Ferdie,
gawpin' at him foolish, and exercisin' his gears, I expect, on the same
problem. Neither of them had said a word up to the time I left.
It took the women half an hour or more to feed Herbert up proper with
all the nice things they could drag from the icebox. Then Mother
Pulsifer patted him on the shoulder and shooed Edna and him through the
French doors out on the veranda.
And what do you guess is Mrs. Pulsifer's openin' as we drifts back
towards the scene of the late conflict?
"Why, Deary!" says she. "You haven't your cigars, have you? Here they
are--and the matches. There! Now for the surprise. Our young people have
decided--that is, Edna has--not to be married until two weeks from next
Wednesday."
Does Pa Pulsifer rant any more rants? No. He gets his perfecto goin'
nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then
remarks in sort of a weak growl:
"Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria--hanged if I do!"
"I told them you wouldn't," says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back
over his ears soothin'; "so they've agreed on a simple home wedding,
with only four bridesmaids."
"Huh!" says he. "It's lucky they did."
But, say, take it from me, his days of crackin' the whip around that
joint are over. I'm beginnin' to believe too how some of that dope I fed
to Herbert must have been straight goods. Vee insists on talkin' it over
later, as we are camped in one of them swing seats out on the veranda.
"Wasn't he just splendid," says she: "standing up to Mr. Pulsifer that
way, you know?"
"Some hero!" says I. "I wonder would he give me a few lessons, in case I
should run across your Aunty some day?"
"Pooh!" says Vee. "Just as though I didn't go back to see if he'd gone
and hear you putting him up to all that yourself! It was fine of you to
do it too, Torchy."
"Right here, then!" says I. "Place the laurel wreath right here."
"Silly!" says she, givin' me a reprovin' pat. "Besides, that porch light
is on."
Which was one of the reasons why I turned it off, and maybe accounts for
our sudden break when Marjorie comes out to tell us it's near twelve
o'clock.
Yes, indeed, though he may not look it, Ferdie is more or less of a
help.
[Illustration: "Which was one of the reasons I turned the porch light
off."]