HOW THE GARVEYS BROKE IN
Course, Vee gives me all the credit. Perfectly right, too. That's the
way we have 'em trained. But, as a matter of fact, stated confidential
and on the side, it was the little lady herself who pushed the starter
button in this affair with the Garveys. If she hadn't I don't see where
it would ever have got going.
Let's see, it must have been early in November. Anyway, it was some
messy afternoon, with a young snow flurry that had finally concluded to
turn to rain, and as I drops off the 5:18 I was glad enough to see the
little roadster backed up with the other cars and Vee waitin' inside
behind the side curtains.
"Good work!" says I, dashin' out and preparin' to climb in. "I might
have got good and damp paddlin' home through this. Bright little thought
of yours."
"Pooh!" says Vee. "Besides, there was an express package the driver
forgot to deliver. It must be that new floor lamp. Bring it out, will
you, Torchy?"
And by the time I'd retrieved this bulky package from the express agent
and stowed it inside, all the other commuters had boarded their various
limousines and flivver taxis and cleared out.
"Hello!" says I, glancin' down the platform where a large and elegant
lady is pacin' up and down lonesome. "Looks like somebody has got left."
At which Vee takes a peek. "I believe it's that Mrs. Garvey," says she.
"Oh!" says I, slidin' behind the wheel and thrown' in the gear.
I was just shiftin' to second when Vee grabs my arm. "How utterly
snobbish of us!" says she. "Let's ask if we can't take her home?"
"On the runnin' board?" says I.
"We can leave the lamp until tomorrow," says Vee. "Come on."
So I cuts a short circle and pulls up opposite this imposin' party in
the big hat and the ruffled mink coat. She lets on not to notice until
Vee leans out and asks:
"Mrs. Garvey, isn't it?"
All the reply she gives is a stiff nod and I notice her face is pinked
up like she was peeved at something.
"If your car isn't here can't we take you home?" asks Vee.
She acts sort of stunned for a second, and then, after another look up
the road through the sheets of rain, she steps up hesitatin'. "I suppose
my stupid chauffeur forgot I'd gone to town," says she. "And as all the
taxis have been taken I--I---- But you haven't room."
"Oh, lots!" says Vee. "We will leave this ridiculous package in the
express office and squeeze up a bit. You simply can't walk, you know."
"Well----" says she.
So I lugs the lamp back and the three of us wedges ourselves into the
roadster seat. Believe me, with a party the size of Mrs. Garvey as the
party of the third part, it was a tight fit. From the way Vee chatters
on, though, you'd think it was some merry lark we was indulgin' in.
"This is what I call our piggy car," says she, "for we can never ask but
one other person at a time. But it's heaps better than having no car at
all. And it's so fortunate we happened to see you, wasn't it?"
Being more or less busy tryin' to shift gears without barkin' Mrs.
Garvey's knees, and turn corners without skiddin' into the gutter, I
didn't notice for a while that Vee was conductin' a perfectly good
monologue. That's what it was, though. Hardly a word out of our stately
passenger. She sits there as stiff as if she was crated, starin' cold
and stony straight ahead, and that peevish flush still showin' on her
cheekbones. Why, you'd most think we had her under arrest instead of
doin' her a favor. And when I finally swings into the Garvey driveway
and pulls up under the porte cochere she untangles herself from the
brake lever and crawls out.
"Thank you," says she crisp, adjustin' her picture hat. "It isn't often
that I am obliged to depend on--on strangers." And while Vee still has
her mouth open, sort of gaspin' from the slam, the lady has marched up
the steps and disappeared.
"Now I guess you know where you get off, eh, Vee?" says I chuckly. "You
_will_ pass up your new neighbors."
"How absurd of her!" says Vee. "Why, I never dreamed that I had offended
her by not calling."
"Well, you've got the straight dope at last," says I. "She's as fond of
us as a cat is of swimmin' with the ducks. Say, my right arm is numb
from being so close to that cold shoulder she was givin' me. Catch me
doin' the rescue act for her again."
"Still," says Vee, "they have been livin out here nearly a year, haven't
they? But then----"
At which she proceeds to state an alibi which sounds reasonable enough.
She'd rather understood that the Garveys didn't expect to be called on.
Maybe you know how it is in one of these near-swell suburbs! Not that
there's any reg'lar committee to pass on newcomers. Some are taken in
right off, some after a while, and some are just left out. Anyway,
that's how it seems to work out here in Harbor Hills.
I don't know who it was first passed around the word, or where we got it
from, but we'd been tipped off somehow that the Garveys didn't belong. I
don't expect either of us asked for details. Whether or not they did
wasn't up to us. But everybody seems to take it that they don't, and act
accordin'. Plenty of others had met the same deal. Some quit after the
first six months, others stuck it out.
As for the Garveys, they'd appeared from nowhere in particular, bought
this big square stucco house on the Shore road, rolled around in their
showy limousine, subscribed liberal to all the local drives and charity
funds, and made several stabs at bein' folksy. But there's no response.
None of the bridge-playing set drop in of an afternoon to ask Mrs.
Garvey if she won't fill in on Tuesday next, she ain't invited to join
the Ladies' Improvement Society, or even the Garden Club; and when
Garvey's application for membership gets to the Country Club committee
he's notified that his name has been put on the waitin' list. I expect
it's still there.
But it's kind of a jolt to find that Mrs. Garvey is sore on us for all
this. "Where does she get that stuff?" I asks Vee, after we get home.
"Who's been telling her we handle the social blacklist for the Roaring
Rock district of Long Island?"
"I suppose she thinks we have done our share, or failed to do it," says
Vee. "And perhaps we have. I'm rather sorry for the Garveys. I'm sure I
don't know what's the matter with them."
I didn't, either. Hadn't given it a thought, in fact. But I sort of got
to chewin' it over. Maybe it was the flashy way Mrs. Garvey dressed, and
the noisy laugh I'd occasionally heard her spring on the station
platform when she was talking to Garvey. Not that all the lady members
of the Country Club set are shrinkin' violets who go around costumed in
Quaker gray and whisper their remarks modest. Some are about as spiffy
dressers as you'll see anywhere and a few are what I'd call speedy
performers. But somehow you know who they are and where they came from,
and make allowances. They're in the swim, anyway.
The trouble might be with Garvey. He's about the same type as the other
half of the sketch--a big, two-fisted ruddy-faced husk, attired sporty
in black and white checks, with gray gaiters and a soft hat to match the
suit. Wore a diamond-set Shriners' watch fob, and an Elks' emblem in his
buttonhole. Course, you wouldn't expect him to have any gentle, ladylike
voice, and he don't. I heard he'd been sent on as an eastern agent of
some big Kansas City packin' house. Must have been a good payin' line,
for he certainly looks like ready money. But somehow he don't seem to be
popular with our bunch of commuters, although at first I understand he
tried to mix in free and easy.
Anyway, the verdict appears to be against lettin' the Garveys in, and we
had about as much to do with it as we did about fixin' the price of
coal, or endin' the sugar shortage. Yet here when we try to do one of
'em a good turn we get the cold eye.
"Next time," says I, "we'll remember we are strangers, and not give her
an openin' to throw it at us."
So I'm a little surprised the followin' Sunday afternoon to see the
Garvey limousine stoppin' out front. As I happens to be wanderin' around
outside I steps up to the gate just as Garvey is gettin' out.
"Ah, Ballard!" he says, cordial. "I want to thank you and Mrs. Ballard
for picking Mrs. Garvey up the other day when our fool chauffeur went to
sleep at the switch. It--it was mighty decent of you."
"Not at all," says I "Couldn't do much less for a neighbor, could we?"
"Some could," says he. "A whole lot less. And if you don't mind my
saying so, it's about the first sign we've had that we were counted as
neighbors."
"Oh, well," says I, "maybe nobody's had a chance to show it before. Will
you come in a minute and thaw out in front of the wood fire?"
"Why--er--I suppose it ain't reg'lar," says he, "but blamed if I
don't."
And after I've towed him into the livin' room, planted him in a wing
chair, and poked up the hickory logs, he springs this conundrum on me:
"Ballard," says he, "I'd like to ask you something and have you give me
an answer straight from the shoulder."
"That's my specialty," says I. "Shoot."
"Just what's the matter with us--Mrs. Garvey and me?" he demands.
"Why--why--Who says there's anything the matter with either of you?" I
asks, draggy.
"They don't have to say it," says he. "They act it. Everybody in this
blessed town; that is, all except the storekeepers, the plumbers, the
milkman, and so on. My money seems to be good enough for them. But as
for the others--well, you know how we've been frozen out. As though we
had something catching, or would blight the landscape. Now what's the
big idea? What are some of the charges in the indictment?"
And I'll leave it to you if that wasn't enough to get me scrapin' my
front hoof. How you goin' to break it to a gent sittin' by your own
fireside that maybe he's a bit rough in the neck, or too much of a yawp
to fit into the refined and exclusive circle that patronizes the 8:03
bankers' express? As I see it, the thing can't be done.
"Excuse me, Mr. Garvey," says I, "but if there's been any true bill
handed in by a pink tea grand jury it's been done without consultin'
me. I ain't much on this codfish stuff myself."
"Shake, young man," says he grateful. "I thought you looked like the
right sort. But without gettin' right down to brass tacks, or namin' any
names, couldn't you slip me a few useful hints? There's no use denyin'
we're in wrong here. I don't suppose it matters much just how; not now,
anyway. But Tim Garvey is no quitter; at least, I've never had that
name. And I've made up my mind to stay with this proposition until I'm
dead sure I'm licked."
"That's the sportin' spirit," says I.
"What I want is a line on how to get in right," says he.
At which I scratches my head and stalls around.
"For instance," he goes on, "what is it these fine Harbor Hills folks do
that I can't learn? Is it parlor etiquette? Then me for that. I'll take
lessons. I'm willin' to be as refined and genteel as anybody if that's
what I lack."
"That's fair enough," says I, still stallin'.
"You see," says Garvey, "this kind of a deal is a new one on us. I don't
want to throw any bull, but out in Kansas City we thought we had just as
good a bunch as you could find anywhere; and we were the ringleaders, as
you might say. Mixed with the best people. All live wires, too. We had a
new country club that would make this one of yours look like a freight
shed. I helped organize it, was one of the directors. And the Madam took
her part, too; first vice-president of the Woman's Club, charter member
of the Holy Twelve bridge crowd, as some called it, and always a
patroness at the big social affairs. A new doormat wouldn't, last us a
lifetime out there. But here--say, how do you break into this bunch,
anyway?"
"Why ask me, who was smuggled in the back door?" says I, grinnin'.
"But you know a lot of these high-brows and aristocrats," he insists. "I
don't. I don't get 'em at all. What brainy stunts or polite acts are
they strongest for? How do they behave when they're among themselves?"
"Why, sort of natural, I guess," says I.
"Whaddye mean, natural?" demands Garvey. "For instance?"
"Well, let's see," says I. "There's Major Brooks Keating, the imposin'
old boy with the gray goatee, who was minister to Greece or Turkey once.
Married some plute's widow abroad and retired from the diplomatic game.
Lives in that near-chateau affair just this side of the Country Club.
His fad is paintin'."
"Pictures?" asks Garvey.
"No. Cow barns, fences, chicken houses," says I. "Anything around the
place that will stand another coat."
"You don't mean he does it himself?" says Garvey.
"Sure he does," says I. "Gets on an old pair of overalls and jumper and
goes to it like he belonged to the union. Last time I was up there he
had all the blinds off one side of the house and was touchin' 'em up.
Mrs. Keating was givin' a tea that afternoon and he crashes right in
amongst 'em askin' his wife what she did with that can of turpentine.
Nobody seems to mind, and they say he has a whale of a time doin' it. So
that's his high-brow stunt."
Garvey shakes his head puzzled. "House painting, eh?" says he. "Some
fad, I'll say."
"He ain't got anything on J. Kearney Rockwell, the potty-built old sport
with the pink complexion and the grand duchess wife," I goes on. "You
know?"
Garvey nods. "Of Rockwell, Griggs & Bland, the big brokerage house,"
says he. "What's his pet side line?"
"Cucumbers," says I. "Has a whole hothouse full of 'em. Don't allow the
gardener to step inside the door, but does it all himself. Even lugs 'em
down to the store in a suitcase and sells as high as $20 worth a week,
they say. I hear he did start peddlin' 'em around the neighborhood once,
but the grand duchess raised such a howl he had to quit. You're liable
to see him wheelin' in a barrowful of manure any time, though."
"Ought to be some sight," says Garvey. "Cucumbers! Any more like him?"
"Oh, each one seems to have his own specialty," says I. "Take Austin
Gordon, one of the Standard Oil crowd, who only shows up at 26 Broadway
for the annual meetings now. You'd never guess what his hobby is. Puppet
shows."
"Eh?" says Garvey, gawpin'.
"Sort of Punch and Judy stuff," says I. "Whittles little dummies out of
wood, paints their faces, dresses 'em up, and makes 'em act by pullin' a
lot of strings. Writes reg'lar plays for 'em. He's got a complete little
theatre fitted up over his garage; stage, scenery, footlights, folding
chairs and everything. Gives a show every now and then. Swell affairs.
Everybody turns out. Course they snicker some in private, but he gets
away with it."
Garvey stares at me sort of dazed. "And here I've been afraid to do
anything but walk around my place wearing gloves and carrying a cane;"
says he. "Afraid of doing something that wasn't genteel, or that would
get the neighbors talking. While these aristocrats do what they please.
They do, don't they!"
"That about states it," says I.
"Do--do you suppose I could do that, too?" he asks.
"Why not?" says I. "You don't stand to lose anything, do you, even if
they do chatter? If I was you I'd act natural and tell 'em to go hang."
"You would?" says he, still starin'.
"To the limit," says I. "What's the fun of livin' if you can't?"
"Say, young man," says Garvey, slappin' his knee. "That listens
sensible to me. Blamed if I don't. And I--I'm much obliged."
And after he's gone Vee comes down from upstairs and wants to know what
on earth I've been talking so long to that Mr. Garvey about.
"Why," says I, "I've been givin' him some wise dope on how to live among
plutes and be happy."
"Silly!" says Vee, rumplin' my red hair. "Do you know what I've made up
my mind to do some day this week? Have you take me for an evening call
on the Garveys."
"Gosh!" says I. "You're some little Polar explorer, ain't you?"
It was no idle threat of Vee's. A few nights later we got under way
right after dinner and drove over there. I expect we were about the
first outsiders to push the bell button since they moved in. But we'd no
sooner rung than Vee begins to hedge.
"Why, they must be giving a party!" says she. "Listen! There's an
orchestra playing."
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Sounds like a jazz band."
A minute later, though, when the butler opens the door, there's no sound
of music, and as we goes in we catches Garvey just strugglin' into his
dinner coat. He seems glad to see us, mighty glad. Says so. Tows us
right into the big drawin' room. But Mrs. Garvey ain't so enthusiastic.
She warms up about as much as a cold storage turkey.
You can't feaze Vee, though, when she starts in to be folksy. "I'm just
so sorry we've been so long getting over," says she. "And we came near
not coming in this time. Didn't we hear music a moment ago. You're not
having a dance or--or anything, are you?"
The Garveys look at each other sort of foolish for a second.
"Oh, no," says Mrs. Garvey. "Nothing of the sort. Perhaps some of the
servants----"
"Now, Ducky," breaks in Garvey, "let's not lay it on the servants."
And Mrs. Garvey turns the color of a fire hydrant clear up into her
permanent wave. "Very well, Tim," says she. "If you _will_ let everybody
know. I suppose it's bound to get out sooner or later, anyhow." And with
that she turns to me. "Anyway, you're the young man who put him up to
this nonsense. I hope you're satisfied."
"Me?" says I, doin' the gawp act.
"How delightfully mysterious!" says Vee. "What's it all about?"
"Yes, Garvey," says I. "What you been up to?"
"I'm being natural, that's all," says he.
"Natural!" snorts Mrs. Garvey. "Is that what you call it?"
"How does it break out?" says I.
"If you must know," says Mrs. Garvey, "he's making a fool of himself by
playing a snare drum."
"Honest?" says I, grinnin' at Garvey.
"Here it is," says he, draggin' out from under a davenport a perfectly
good drum.
"And you might as well exhibit the rest of the ridiculous things," says
Mrs. Garvey.
"Sure!" says Garvey, swingin' back a Japanese screen and disclosin' a
full trap outfit--base drum with cymbals, worked by a foot pedal,
xylophone blocks, triangle, and sand boards--all rigged up next to a
cabinet music machine.
"Well, well!" says I. "All you lack is a leader and Sophie Tucker to
screech and you could go on at Reisenwebers."
"Isn't it all perfectly fascinating?" says Vee, testin' the drum pedal.
"But it's such a common, ordinary thing to do," protests Mrs. Garvey.
"Drumming! Why, out in Kansas City I remember that the man who played
the traps in our Country Club orchestra worked daytimes as a plumber. He
was a poor plumber, at that."
"But he was a swell drummer," says Garvey. "I took lessons of him, on
the sly. You see, as a boy, the one big ambition in my life was to play
the snare drum. But I never had money enough to buy one. I couldn't have
found time to play it anyway. And in Kansas City I was too busy trying
to be a good sport. Here I've got more time than I know what to do with.
More money, too. So I've got the drum, and the rest. I'm here to say,
too, that knocking out an accompaniment to some of these new jazz
records is more fun than I've ever had all the rest of my life."
"I'm sure it must be," says Vee. "Do play once for us, Mr. Garvey.
Couldn't I come in on the piano? Let's try that 'Dardanella' thing?"
And say, inside of ten minutes they were at it so hard that you'd most
thought Arthur Pryor and his whole aggregation had cut loose. Then they
did some one-step pieces with lots of pep in 'em, and the way Garvey
could roll the sticks, and tinkle the triangle, and keep the cymbals and
base drum goin' with his foot was as good to watch as a jugglin' act,
even if he does leak a lot on the face when he gets through.
"You're some jazz artist, I'll say," says I.
"So will the neighbors, I'm afraid," says Mrs. Garvey. "That will sound
nice, won't it?"
"Oh, blow the neighbors!" says Garvey. "I'm going to do as I please from
now on; and it pleases me to do this."
"Then we might as well nail up the front door and eat in the kitchen,
like we used to," says she, sighin'.
But it don't work out that way for them. It was like this: Austin Gordon
was pullin' off one of his puppet shows and comes around to ask Vee
wouldn't she do some piano playin' for him between the acts and durin'
parts of the performance. He'd hoped to have a violinist, too, but the
party had backed out. So Vee tells him about Garvey's trap outfit, and
how clever he is at it, and suggests askin' him in.
"Why, certainly!" says Gordon.
So Garvey pulls his act before the flower and chivalry of Harbor Hills.
They went wild over it, too. And at the reception afterwards he was
introduced all round, patted on the back by the men, and taffied up by
the ladies. Even Mrs. Timothy Garvey, who'd been sittin' stiff and
purple-faced all the evenin' in a back seat was rung in for a little of
the glory.
"Say, Garvey," says Major Brooks Keating, "we must have you and Mrs.
Ballard play for us at our next Country Club dinner dance after the fool
musicians quit. Will you, eh? Not a member? Well, you ought to be. I'll
see that you're made one, right away."
I don't know of anyone who was more pleased at the way things had turned
out than Vee. "There, Torchy!" says she. "I've always said you were a
wonder at managing things."
"Why shouldn't I be?" says I, givin' her the side clinch. "Look at the
swell assistant I've got."