IN DEEP FOR WADDY
And all the time I had Wadley Fiske slated as a dead one! Course, he was
one of Mr. Robert's clubby friends. But that don't always count. He may
be choosey enough picking live wires for his office staff, Mr. Robert,
as you might guess by my bein' his private sec; but when it came to
gettin' a job lot of friends wished on him early in his career, I must
say he couldn't have been very finicky.
Not that Waddy's a reg'lar washout, or carries a perfect vacuum between
the ears, or practices any of the seven deadly sins. He's a cheerful,
good-natured party, even if he is built like a 2x4 and about as broad in
the shoulders as a cough drop is thick. I understand he qualifies in the
scheme of things by playin' a fair game of billiards, is always willing
to sit in at bridge, and can make himself useful at any function where
the ladies are present. Besides, he always wears the right kind of
clothes, can say bright little things at a dinner party, and can
generally be located by calling up any one of his three clubs.
Chiefly, though, Waddy is a ladies' man. With him being in and out of
the Corrugated General Offices so much I couldn't help gettin' more or
less of a line on him that way, for he's always consultin' Mr. Robert
about sendin' flowers to this one, or maneuverin' to get introduced to
the other, or gushin' away about some sweet young thing that he's met
the night before.
"How does he get away with all that Romeo stuff," I asks Mr. Robert
once, "without being tagged permanent? Is it just his good luck?"
"Waddy calls it his hard luck," says Mr. Robert. "It seems as if they
just use him to practice on. He will find a new queen of his heart,
appear to be getting on swimmingly up to a certain point--and then she
will marry someone else. Invariably. I've known of at least a half dozen
of his affairs to turn out like that."
"Kind of a matrimonial runner-up, eh?" says I.
Oh, yes, I expect we got off a lot of comic lines about Waddy. Anyway we
passed 'em as such. But of course there come days when we have other
things to do here at the Corrugated besides shoot the gay and frivolous
chatter back and forth. Now and then. Such as here last Wednesday when
Mr. Robert had two committee meetin's on for the afternoon and was goin'
over with me some tabulated stuff I'd doped out for the annual report.
Right in the midst of that Wadley Fiske blows in and proceeds to hammer
Mr. Robert on the back.
"I say, Bob," says he, "you remember my telling you about the lovely
Marcelle Jedain? I'm sure I told you."
"If you didn't it must have been an oversight," says Mr. Robert.
"Suppose we admit that you did."
"Well, what do you think?" goes on Waddy, "She is here!"
"Eh?" says Mr. Robert, glancin' around nervous. "Why the deuce do you
bring her here?"
"No, no, my dear chap!" protests Waddy. "In this country, I mean."
"Oh!" and Mr. Robert sighs relieved. "Well, give the young lady my best
regards and--er--I wish you luck. Thanks for dropping in to tell me."
"Not at all," says Waddy, drapin' himself easy on a chair. "But that's
just the beginning."
"Sorry, Waddy," says Mr. Robert, "but I fear I am too busy just now
to----"
"Bah!" snorts Waddy. "You can attend to business any time--tomorrow,
next week, next month. But the lovely Marcelle may be sailing within
forty-eight hours."
"Well, what do you expect me to do?" demands Mr. Robert. "Want me to
scuttle the steamer?"
"I want you to help me find Joe Bruzinski," says Waddy.
Mr. Robert throws up both hands and groans. "Here, Torchy," says, he,
"take him away. Listen to his ravings, and if you can discover any
sense----"
"But I tell you," insists Waddy, "that I must find Bruzinski at once."
"Very well," says Mr. Robert, pushin' him towards the door. "Torchy will
help you find him. Understand, Torchy? Bruzinski. Stay with him until he
does."
"Yes, sir," says I, grinnin' as I locks an arm through one of Waddy's
and tows him into the outer office. "Bruzinski or bust."
And by degrees I got the tale. First off, this lovely Marcelle person
was somebody he'd met while he was helpin' wind up the great war. No,
not on the Potomac sector. Waddy actually got across. You might not
think it to look at him, but he did. Second lieutenant, too. Infantry,
at that. But they handed out eommissions to odder specimens than him at
Plattsburg, you know. And while Waddy got over kind of late he had the
luck to be in a replacement unit that made the whoop-la advance into
Belgium after the Hun line had cracked.
Seems it was up in some dinky Belgian town where the Fritzies had been
runnin' things for four years that Waddy meets this fair lady with the
impulsive manners. His regiment had wandered in only a few hours after
the Germans left and to say that the survivin' natives was glad to see
'em is drawin' it mild. This Miss Jedain was the gladdest of the glad,
and when Waddy shows up at her front door with a billet ticket callin'
for the best front room she just naturally falls on his neck. I take it
he got kissed about four times in quick concussion. Also that the flavor
lasted.
"To be received in that manner by a high born, charming young woman,"
says Waddy. "It--it was delightful. Perhaps you can imagine."
"No," says I. "I ain't got that kind of a mind. But go on. What's the
rest?"
Well, him and the lovely Marcelle had three days of it. Not going to a
fond clinch every time he came down to breakfast or drifted in for
luncheon. She simmered down a bit, I under stand, after her first wild
splurge. But she was very folksy all through his stay, insisted that
Waddy was her heroic deliverer, and all that sort of thing.
"Of course," says Waddy, "I tried to tell her that I'd had very little
to do personally with smashing the Hindenburg line. But she wouldn't
listen to a word. Besides, my French was rather lame. So we--we--Well,
we became very dear to each other. She was charming, utterly. And so
full of gratitude to all America. She could not do enough for our boys.
All day she was going among them, distributing little dainties she had
cooked, giving them little keepsakes, smiling at them, singing to them.
And every night she had half a dozen officers in to dinner. But to
me--ah, I can't tell you how sweet she was."
"Don't try," says I. "I think I get a glimmer. All this lasted three
days, eh! Then you moved on."
Waddy sighs deep. "I didn't know until then how dreadful war could be,"
says he. "I promised to come back to her just as soon as the awful mess
was over. She declared that she would come to America if I didn't. She
gave me one of her rings. 'It shall be as a token,' she told me, 'that I
am yours.'"
"Sort of a trunk check, eh?" says I.
"Ah, that ring!" says Waddy. "You see, it was too large for my little
finger too small for any of the others. And I was afraid of losing it if
I kept it in my pocket. I was always losing things--shaving mirrors,
socks, wrist watch. Going about like that one does. At least, I did. All
over France I scattered my belongings. That's what you get by having had
a valet for so long.
"So I called up Joe Bruzinski, my top sergeant. Best top in the army,
Joe; systematic, methodical. I depended upon him for nearly everything;
couldn't have gotten along without him, in fact. Not an educated fellow,
you know. Rather crude. An Americanized Pole, I believe. But efficient,
careful about little things. I gave him the ring to keep for me. Less
than a week after that I was laid up with a beastly siege of influenza
which came near finishing me. I was shipped back to a base hospital and
it was more than a month before I was on my feet again. Meanwhile I'd
gotten out of touch with my division, applied for a transfer to another
branch, got stuck with an S. O. S. job, and landed home at the tail-end
of everything after all the shouting was over."
"I see," says I. "Bruzinski lost in the shuffle."
"Precisely," says Waddy. "Mustered out months before I was. When I did
get loose they wouldn't let me go back to Belgium. And then----"
"I remember," says I. "You side-tracked the lovely Marcelle for that
little blonde from. Richmond, didn't you?"
"A mere passing fancy," says Waddy, flushin' up. "Nothing serious. She
was really engaged all the time to Bent Hawley. They're to be married
next month, I hear. But Marcelle! She has come. Just think, she has been
in this country for weeks, came over with the King and Queen of Belgium
and stayed on. Looking for me. I suppose. And I knew nothing at all
about it until yesterday. She's in Washington. Jimmy Carson saw her
driving down Pennsylvania avenue. He was captain of my company, you
know. Rattle-brained chap, Jimmy. Hadn't kept track of Bruzinski at all.
Knew he came back, but no more. So you see? In order to get that ring I
must find Joe."
"I don't quite get you," says I. "Why not find the lovely Marcelle first
and explain about the ring afterwards?"
Waddy shakes his head. "I was in uniform when she knew me," says he.
"I--I looked rather well in it, I'm told. Anyway, different. But in
civies, even a frock coat, I've an idea she wouldn't recognize me as a
noble hero. Eh?"
"Might be something in that," I admits.
"But if I had the ring that she gave me--her token--well, you see?" goes
on Waddy. "I must have it. So I must find Bruzinski."
"Yes, that's your play," I agrees. "Where did he hail from?"
"Why, from somewhere in Pennsylvania," says Waddy; "some weird little
place that I never could remember the name of."
"Huh!" says I. "Quite a sizable state, you know. You couldn't ramble
through it in an afternoon pagin' Joe Bruzinski."
"I suppose one couldn't," says Waddy. "But there must be some way of
locating him. Couldn't I telegraph to the War Department?"
"You could," says I, "and about a year from next Yom Kippur you might
get a notice that your wire had been received and placed on file. Why,
they're still revisin' casualty lists from the summer of 1918. If you're
in any hurry about gettin' in touch with Mr. Bruzinski----"
"Hurry!" gasps Waddy. "Why, I must find him by tonight."
"That's goin' to call for speed," says I. "I don't see how you
could--Say, now! I just thought of something. We might tickle Uncle Sam
in the W. R. I. B."
"Beg pardon!" says Waddy, gawpin'.
"War Risk Insurance Bureau," I explains. "That is, if Miss Callahan's
still there. Used to be one of our stenogs until she went into war work.
Last I knew she was still at it, had charge of one of the filing cases.
They handle soldier's insurance there, you know, and if Bruzinski's kept
his up----"
"By George!" breaks in Waddy. "Of course. Do you know, I never thought
of that."
"No, you wouldn't," says I "May not work, at that. But we can try. She's
a reg'lar person, Miss Callahan."
Anyway, she knew right where to put her fingers on Joe Bruzinski's card
and shoots us back his mailin' address by lunch time. It's Coffee Creek,
Pa.
"What an absurd place to live in!" says Waddy. "And how on earth can we
ever find it."
"Eh?" says I. "We?"
"But I couldn't possibly get there by myself," says Waddy. "I've never
been west of Philadelphia. Oh, yes, I've traveled a lot abroad, but
that's different. One hires a courier. Really, I should be lost out of
New York. Besides, you know Mr. Robert said you were to--oh, there he is
now. I say, Bob, isn't Torchy to stay with me until I find Bruzinski?"
"Absolutely," says Mr. Robert, throwin' a grin over his shoulder at me
as he slips by.
"Maybe he thinks that's a life sentence," says I. "Chuck me that
Pathfinder from the case behind you, will you? Now let's see. Here we
are, page 937--Coffee Creek, Pa. Inhabitants 1,500. Flag station on the
Lackawanna below Wilkes-Barre. That's in the Susquehanna valley. Must be
a coal town. Chicago limited wouldn't stop there. But we can probably
catch a jitney or something from Wilkes-Barre. Just got time to make the
1:15, too. Come on. Lunch on train."
I expect Waddy ain't been jumped around so rapid before in his whole
career. I allows him only time enough to lay in a fresh supply of
cigarettes on the way to the ferry and before he's caught his breath we
are sittin' in the dinin' car zoomin' through the north end of New
Jersey. I tried to get him interested in the scenery as we pounded
through the Poconos and galloped past the Water Gap, but it couldn't be
done. When he gets real set on anything it seems Waddy has a single
track mind.
"I trust he still has that ring," he remarks.
"That'll ride until we've found your ex-top sergeant," says I. "What was
his line before he went in the army--plumber, truck driver, or what?"
Waddy hadn't the least idea. Not having been mixed up in industry
himself, he hadn't been curious. Now that I mentioned it he supposed
Joe had done something for a living. Yes, he was almost sure. He had
noticed that Joe's hands were rather rough and calloused.
"What would that indicate?" asks Waddy.
"Most anything," says I, "from the high cost of gloves to a strike of
lady manicures. Don't strain your intellect over it, though. If he's
still in Coffee Creek there shouldn't be much trouble findin' him."
Which was where I took a lot for granted. When we piled off the express
at Wilkes-Barre I charters a flivver taxi, and after a half hour's drive
with a speed maniac who must have thought he was pilotin' a DeHaviland
through the clouds we're landed in the middle of this forsaken, one
horse dump, consistin' of a double row of punk tenement blocks and a
sprinklin' of near-beer joints that was givin' their last gasp. I tried
out three prominent citizens before I found one who savvied English.
"Sure!" says he. "Joe Bruzinski? He must be the mine boss by Judson's
yet. First right hand turn you take and keep on the hill up."
"Until what?" says I.
"Why, Judson's operation--the mine," says he. "Can't miss. Road ends at
Judson's."
Uh-huh. It did. High time, too. A road like that never should be allowed
to start anywhere. But the flivver negotiated it and by luck we found
the mine superintendent in the office--a grizzled, chunky little
Welshman with a pair of shrewd eyes. Yes, he says Bruzinski is around
somewhere. He thinks he's down on C level plotting out some new
contracts for the night shift.
"What luck!" says Waddy. "I say, will you call him right up?"
"That I will, sir," says the superintendent, "if you'll tell me how."
"Why," says Waddy, "couldn't you--er--telephone to him, or send a
messenger?"
It seems that can't be done. "You might try shouting down, the shaft
though," says the Welshman, with a twinkle in his eyes.
Waddy would have gone hoarse doin' it, too, if I hadn't given him the
nudge. "Wake up," says I. "You're being kidded."
"But see here, my man----" Waddy begins.
"Mr. Llanders is the name," says the superintendent a bit crisp.
"Ah, yes. Thanks," says Waddy. "It is quite important, Mr. Llanders,
that I find Bruzinski at once."
"Mayhap he'll be up by midnight for a bite to eat," says Llanders.
"Then we'll just have to go down where he is," announces Waddy.
Llanders stares at him curious. "You'd have an interesting time doing
that, young man," says he; "very interesting."
"But I say," starts in Waddy again, which was where I shut him off.
"Back up, Waddy," says I, "before you bug the case entirely. Let me ask
Mr. Llanders where I can call up your good friend Judson."
"That I couldn't rightly say, sir," says Llanders. "It might be one
place, and it might be another. Maybe they'd know better at the office
of his estate in Scranton, but as he's been dead these eight years----"
"Check!" says I. "It would have been a swell bluff if it had worked
though, wouldn't it?"
Llanders indulges in a grim smile. "But it didn't," says he.
"That's the sad part," says I, "for Mr. Fiske here is in a great stew to
see this Bruzinski party right away. There's a lady in the case, as you
might know; one they met while they were soldierin' abroad. So if
there's any way you could fix it for them to get together----"
"Going down's the only way," says Llanders, "and that's strictly against
orders."
"Except on a pass, eh?" says I. "Lucky we brought that along. Waddy,
slip it to Mr. Llanders. No, don't look stupid. Feel in your right hand
vest pocket. That's it, one of those yellow-backed ones with a double X
in the corners. Ah, here! Don't you know how to present a government
pass?" And I has to take it away from him and tuck it careless into the
superintendent's coat pocket.
"Of course," says Llanders, "if you young gentlemen are on official
business, it makes a difference."
"Then let's hurry along," says Waddy, startin' impatient.
"Dressed like that?" says Llanders, starin' at Waddy's Fifth Avenue
costume. "I take it you've not been underground before, sir?"
"Only in the subway," says Waddy.
"You'll find a coal mine quite unlike the subway," says Llanders. "I
think we can fix you up for it, though."
They did. And when Waddy had swapped his frock coat for overalls and
jumper, and added a pair of rubber boots and a greasy cap with an
acetylene lamp stuck in the front of it he sure wouldn't have been
recognized even by his favorite waiter at the club. I expect I looked
about as tough, too. And I'll admit that all this preparation seemed
kind of foolish there in the office. Ten minutes later I knew it wasn't.
Not a bit.
"Do we go down in a car or something?" asks Waddy.
"Not if you go with me," says Llanders. "We'll walk down Slope 8. Before
we start, however, it will be best for me to tell you that this was a
drowned mine."
"Listens excitin'," says I. "Meanin' what?"
"Four years ago the creek came in on us," says Llanders, "flooded us to
within ten feet of the shaft mouth. We lost only a dozen men, but it was
two years before we had the lower levels clear. We manage to keep it
down now with the pumps, Bruzinski is most likely at the further end of
the lowest level."
"Is he?" says Waddy. "I must see him, you know."
Whether he took in all this about the creek's playful little habits or
not I don't know. Anyway, he didn't hang back, and while I've started on
evenin' walks that sounded a lot pleasanter I wasn't going to duck then.
If Waddy could stand it I guessed I could.
So down we goes into a black hole that yawns in the middle of a muddy
field. I hadn't gone far, either, before I discovers that being your own
street light wasn't such an easy trick. I expect a miner has to wear his
lamp on his head so's to have his hands free to swing a pick. But I'll
be hanged if it's comfortable or easy. I unhooked mine and carried it in
my hand, ready to throw the light where I needed it most.
And there was spots where I sure needed it bad, for this Slope 8
proposition was no garden pathway, I'll say. First off, it was mucky and
slippery under foot, and in some places it dips down sharp, almost as
steep as a church roof. Then again there was parts where they'd skimped
on the ceilin', and you had to do a crouch or else bump your bean on
unpadded rocks. On and down, down and on we went, slippin' and slidin',
bracin' ourselves against the wet walls, duckin' where it was low and
restin' our necks where they'd been more generous with the excavatin'.
There was one 'specially sharp pitch of a hundred feet or so and right
in the worst of it we had to dodge a young waterfall that comes
filterin' down through the rocks. It was doin' some roarin' and
splashin', too. I was afraid Llanders might not have noticed it.
"How about it!" says I. "This ain't another visit from the creek, is
it?"
"Only part of it," says he careless. "The pumps are going, you know."
"I hope they're workin' well," says I.
As for Waddy, not a yip out of him. He sticks close behind Llanders and
plugs along just as if he was used to scramblin' through a muddy hole
three hundred feet or so below the grass roots. That's what it is to be
100 per cent in love. All he could think of was gettin' that ring back
and renewin' cordial relations with the lovely Marcelle. But I was
noticin' enough for two. I knew that we'd made so many twists and turns
that we must be lost for keeps. I saw the saggy, rotten timbers that
kept the State of Pennsylvania from cavin' in on us. And now and then I
wondered how long it would be before they dug us out.
"Where's all the coal?" I asks Llanders, just by way of makin' talk.
"Why, here," says he, touchin' the side-wall.
Sure enough, there it was, the real black diamond stuff such as you
shovel into the furnace--when you're lucky. I scaled off a piece and
tested it with the lamp. And gradually I begun to revise my ideas of a
coal mine. I'd always thought of it as a big cave sort of a place, with
a lot of miners grouped around the sides pickin' away sociable. But here
is nothing but a maze of little tunnels, criss-crossin' every which way,
with nobody in sight except now and then, off in a dead-end, we'd get a
glimpse of two or three kind of ghosty figures movin' about solemn. It's
all so still, too. Except in places where we could hear the water
roarin' there wasn't a sound. Only in one spot, off in what Llanders
calls a chamber, we finds two men workin' a compressed air jack-hammer,
drillin' holes.
"They'll be shooting a blast soon," says Llanders. "Want to wait?"
"No thanks," says I prompt. "Mr. Fiske is in a rush."
Maybe I missed something interestin', but with all that rock over my
head I wasn't crazy to watch somebody monkey with dynamite. The
jack-hammer crew gave us a line on where we might find Bruzinski, and I
expect for a while there I led the way. After another ten-minute stroll,
durin' which we dodged a string of coal cars being shunted down a grade,
we comes across three miners chattin' quiet in a corner. One of 'em
turns out to be the mine-boss.
"Hey, Joe!" says Llanders. "Somebody wants to see you."
At which Waddy pushes to the front. "Oh, I say, Bruzinski! Remember me,
don't you?" he asks.
Joe looks him over casual and shakes his head.
"I'm Lieutenant Fiske, you know," says Waddy. "That is, I was."
"Well, I'll be damned!" says Joe earnest. "The Loot! What's up?"
"That ring I gave you in Belgium," goes on Waddy. "I--I hope you still
have it?"
"Ye-e-es," says Joe draggy. "Fact is, I was goin' to use it tomorrow.
I'm gettin' engaged. Nice girl, too. I was meanin' to----"
"But you can't, Joe," breaks in Waddy. "Not with that ring. Miss Jedain
gave me that. Here, I'll give you another. How will this do?" And Waddy
takes a low set spark off his finger.
"All right. Fine!" says Joe, and proceeds to unhook the other ring from
his leather watch, guard. "But what's all the hurry about?"
"Because she's here," says Waddy. "In Washington, I mean. The lovely
Marcelle. Came over looking for me, Joe, just as she promised. Perhaps
you didn't know she did promise, though?"
"Sure," says Joe. "That's what she told all of us."
"Eh?" gasps Waddy.
"Some hugger, that one," says Joe. "Swell lady, too. A bear-cat for
makin' love, I'll tell the world. Me, and the Cap., and the First Loot,
and you, all the same day. She was goin' to marry us all. And the Cap.,
with a wife and two kids back in Binghamton, N. Y., he got almost
nervous over it."
"I--I can't believe it," says Waddy gaspy. "Did--did she give you a--a
token, as she did to me?"
"No," says Joe. "None of us fell quite so hard for her as you did. I
guess we kinda suspected what was wrong with her."
"Wrong?" echoes Waddy.
"Why not?" asks Joe. "Four years of the Huns, and then we came blowin'
in to lift the lid and let 'em come up out of the cellars. Just
naturally went simple in the head, she did. Lots like her, only they
took it out in different ways. Her line was marryin' us, singly and in
squads; overlookin' complete that she had one perfectly good hubby who
was an aide or something to King Albert, as well as three nice
youngsters. We heard about that later, after she'd come to a little."
For a minute or so Waddy stands there starin' at Joe with his mouth open
and his shoulders sagged. Then he slumps on a log and lets his chin
drop.
"Goin' to hunt her up and give back the ring?" asks Joe. "That the
idea?"
"Not--not precisely," says Waddy. "I--I shall send it by mail, I think."
And all the way out he walked like he was in a daze. He generally takes
it hard for a day or so, I understand. So we had that underground
excursion all for nothing. That is, unless you count my being able to
give Mr. Robert the swift comeback next mornin' when he greets me with
a chuckle.
"Well, Torchy," says he, "how did you leave Bruzinski?"
"Just where I found him," says I, "about three hundred feet
underground."