RUNG IN WITH THE GOLD SPOONERS
On the level now, what's a he Cinderella? And if your boss called you a
name like that, would you resign, or throw out your chest and strike for
a raise? But, then, maybe it was only some of Mr. Robert's fancy
joshin'. Anyway, I'd stand in line waitin' for a thing like that to
happen again.
The way it begun was when I runs across this new girl in the filin' room
and finds her snifflin' over one of the index cases. She's bitin' her
lips to keep from doing it and she's red way up behind her ears; so I
knows she's more mad than sorry. I could guess what's happened; for I'd
just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important.
"Hello, sis!" says I. "Weepin' over your job so soon?"
"Shut up!" says she.
"Why, how pettish!" says I. "What was Piddie callin' you down for?"
"What's that to you?" says she. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, I'm the Corrugated's gen'ral grouch dispeller. I'm
the official little ray of sunshine. See?" and I bobs my head so she can
get a good view of my red thatch.
"Huh!" says she; but she can't help lettin' out a grin, so I sees the
cure has begun.
"Don't you mind Piddie," says I. "He don't dare tie the can to you
without reportin' higher up. He likes to make a noise like a watchdog,
that's all. Next time you give him the merry chuckle."
And, honest, I'd done the same if she'd been wall-eyed and
toggle-jointed, just for the sake of blockin' off his little game.
It wa'n't until a couple of days later, when she shoots over a casual
flashlight look as I'm strollin' past, that I takes any partic'lar
notice of what a Daisy Maizie she is. There's more or less class to her
lines, all right, not to mention a pair of rollin' brown eyes. Course, I
sends back the roguish wink, and by the end of the week we was callin'
each other by our pet names.
Not that I'm entered reg'lar as a Percy boy, or that I takes this so
serious as to miss any meals; but you know how it is. And what if she
was a few years older? She seems to like it when I sing out, "Oh, you
Theresa!" at her, and once she mussed up my hair when there wa'n't
anybody lookin'. In fact, I was almost to the point of thinkin' that I'd
been picked as somebody's honey boy when this Izzy Budheimer shows up as
a late entry.
Izzy, he's a third assistant in the stock department, and on twelve a
week he sports one of those striped green overcoats and a plush hat with
the bow behind. Maybe he wouldn't be listed as a home destroyer; but he
has a flossy way with him and he goes around a lot. About the second
week I sees him and the new girl gettin' chummier and chummier, and,
while she still has a jolly for me now and then, I knows I'm only a side
issue. That's what hurt most. So what fool play must I make but go and
plunge on a sixty-cent box of mixed choc'lates for her!
As luck would have it, Mr. Robert spots me comin' out of the 23d-st.
candy shop with the package under my arm. You wouldn't think he'd notice
a little clew like that, or pick me up on it; but he does.
"How now, Torchy?" says he. "Sweets to the sweet, eh?"
"Uh-huh," says I, and I guess I colors up some.
"What is the fair one's name?" says he.
"Tessie," says I.
"Ah!" says he. "Thus were they ever named: Tessie, Juliet, and Helen of
Troy. They're all one. My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be
kind!"
Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has
a good lunch under his vest and nothin' heavy on his mind. It don't mean
anything at all.
"Troy!" says I. "Can it! This ain't for no up-State laundry hand. She
comes from Eighth-ave."
Well, I stows the box away until closin' time, and then waits around the
upper corridor for Tessie to show up. Izzy, he spots me and proceeds to
improve the time by givin' me an earache about what an important party
he is, how he expects to be jumped a notch soon, and about how much he
makes nights on the outside, followin' up some checkroom snap or other.
"That's fine!" says I. "But won't you be late gettin' over to
Grand-st.?"
Izzy was still explainin' how long it was since his folks moved to the
West Side, and what swell things they had in the parlor, when Tessie
floats out with her new spring lid and princess walkin' suit on. I'm
just shovin' out the peace offerin' and gettin' ready to hand over my
smoothest josh, when she brushes past like I was part of the wall
decoration, squeals, "Oh, Mr. Budheimer!" and begins showin' Izzy some
tickets for the grand annual benefit ball of the Shirtwaist Makers'
Union, and tellin' him how she was sellin' 'em for her sister, and what
a grand time it was goin' to be.
"How much?" says Izzy, tryin' hard to choke it back, but losin' the
struggle.
"Seventy-five for a double ticket," says Tessie. "That's the kind you
want."
"Maybe I would yet, if I could get a partner," says he.
"Ain't that an awful sad case?" says Tessie. "Nobody's teased me very
hard, either."
"You'll go with me, yes?" says Izzy.
"It's awful sudden," says she; "but a chance is a chance. Don't send a
cab; the folks in the block might think I was putting on."
And me? Why, I don't show on the chart at all! Right under my nose she
does it, and don't even give me a sideways glance.
"Pooh!" says I. "Pooh, pooh!"
"What a cute little fellah!" says Tessie to him as they crowds into the
elevator with the rest of the push.
"Say," says I, making a jump for the grating, "you don't need to----"
"Next car!" sings out the Johnny Flip, slammin' the door. Now wa'n't
that rubbin' it in?
"Coises!" says I. "Deep coises!" and walks down eleven flights with a
temperature that would have got me condemned by any boiler inspector in
the business. The candy? That goes to one of the pie-faced maids where I
lives.
The nerve of that Izzy, though! In the mornin' he comes around just like
nothin' had happened and wants to know if I'll sub. for him on his
evenin' job the night he goes to the ball. To show I don't carry any
grouch, I says I will; but he offers only half-pay and makes me agree to
split the tips with him.
"I couldn't afford it, at that," says he, "only this is a kid session
and the graft will be light."
It's this checkroom work of his, you know, at one of them swell
Fifth-ave. joints where they have an extra night force on call for
coming-out parties and dinner dances and the like. So, while him and
Tessie is enjoyin' themselves with the lady shirtwaist makers, I'm
standin' behind the counter wearin' a braided jacket, givin' out check
coupons, and stowin' away hats and top-coats for Master Reginald and
other buddin' sports of the younger set. Seems this is the final blowout
of Miss Somebody's afternoon dancin' class, and no one was allowed
inside unless Father had his name printed in bright red ink in the
social register.
A hot lot of young gold spooners they was too; some of 'em not as old as
me by a couple of years, and swellin' around in dinky Tuxes and white
kids. One of 'em even hands me in a silver-headed cane.
"Careful of that stick, my man," says he.
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Puppah'd be wild if anything happened to it,
wouldn't he?"
And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the
cloakroom between the numbers,--all about the awful things they did at
prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches
up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin' mornin' prayers. Almost made
your blood run cold--not.
When they got to discussin' the girls, though, and sayin' how such a one
was a "jolly sort," and others was "bloomin' rotters," it made me
seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin' things I
couldn't hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin'
in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.
It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the
cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a
young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked
bunch.
"Bobby," says she, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"Run on now, Vee," says he. "Told you when I asked you to come that I
wasn't a dancing man, y'know."
"Fudge!" says she, stampin' her foot. "You think it's smart to take that
pose, don't you? Well, you wait!"
And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the
silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,--the slimmest feet
and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of
sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was
a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.
"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers," she goes on. "You just
wait!"
"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?" says
Bobby.
"Wouldn't I, though!" says she.
That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and
beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though.
"Tell ahead," says he. "Who cares? And let's see you get any more
dances!"
He's a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen
look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady
a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin' at him.
I'm so much int'rested in the case that the first thing I know I've
butted in with advice.
"Ah, be nice, Claude!" says I. "Dance with the young lady. I would if I
was you."
And you can't guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy.
He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to
by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to
me real majestic and threatenin'.
"You--you----How dare you?" he splutters out.
"There, there!" says I. "Don't get bristle-spined over it. I wa'n't
offerin' any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that
I'll take it back."
"I--I'll have you dismissed!" he growls.
"Can't do it, Bobby," says I. "I'm no reg'lar tip-chaser. I'm here
incog.--doing it for a lark, y'know. Back to your corner, now! There's a
lady present."
He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink.
"I hope you're satisfied, Vee," says he. "You would come in here,
though! I can't help it if the attendants are insolent to you."
"Pooh!" says Miss Vee. "The young man was only taking my part."
"So?" sneers Bobbie. "I congratulate you on your new champion."
"He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!" she fires back
at him.
"Does he?" says Bobby. "Then why don't you get him for a partner?"
[Illustration: "G'WAN!" SAYS I, "IT'S A FAIR SWAP."]
"If you don't ask me for this next waltz, I will," says she, tossin' up
her chin.
"What a bluff!" says Bobby. "Well, Miss Vee, I'm not going to ask you.
Now!"
Say, it was gettin' more or less personal by that time, and I was
wonderin' just how the young lady was goin' to back out of the
proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know
she's marchin' straight over to where I was.
"Will you give me this next waltz?" says she.
"Say," I gasps, "do you mean it?"
"Certainly I do," says she. "You can dance, can't you?"
"I don't know," says I; "but I can do an East Side spiel."
"Good!" says she. "I know how to do that too. Come on."
"In a minute," says I. "Just hold on until I borrow the young
gentleman's evenin' coat."
"Wha--what's that?" snorts Bobby.
"You can be usin' mine for a smokin' jacket," says I. "Peel it off now,
and let the fancy vest come along too!"
"I--I won't do it!" says Bobbie.
"Oh, yes, you will," says I, "or else you and me will be mixed up in a
rumpus that'll bring the chaperons and special cops in here on the
run," and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black
vest.
"You're insulting!" says Bobby, gettin' wild-eyed.
"G'wan!" says I. "It's a fair swap. I'll leave it to the young lady."
And when I'd sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn't made any wild
guess. There's a twinkle under them long eyelashes that's as good as a
go-ahead signal.
"Of course," says she. "It was you who suggested him as a partner,
anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!"
"I--I----" he begins.
"Ah, shuck 'em!" says I, startin' for him hasty.
I expects it was the prospects of gettin' rung into a rough and tumble,
and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby's mind so sudden. At
any rate, inside of a minute more I'm wearin' the pearl-gray waistcoat
and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the
green and gold ballroom with somebody's pink-costumed heiress hangin' to
my left arm.
"One-two-three; one-two-three----Now!" says she, countin' out the time
so I shouldn't make any false start.
But, say, I didn't need that. Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about
all the dancin' I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney
Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like "Yip-I-Addy"
played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a
crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was?
Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed
maple boards like a pair of summer butterflies, pivotin' first one way
and then the other, dodgin' in and out among the couples, and givin' an
exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin' like a
cripples' parade.
First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn't know
whether I was waltzin', or havin' a joy ride with some biplane shuffer.
I wa'n't sayin' a word in the way of language; but Miss Vee keeps up a
string of chatter and giggles that's enough for both. You'd thought to
see us, I expect, that we was carryin' on a real, rapid-fire, smart-set
dialogue, when all the while it was only her tellin' me how the
diff'rent parties was actin' when they first spotted her on the floor
with a ringer, and how the chaperons were squintin' at us through their
lorgnettes, tryin' to make out who I was. And the greatest shock I ever
had was when the music stopped and I fell about a mile down through rosy
clouds.
"Wait!" says Miss Vee, squeezin' my arm. "There'll be an encore. My
aunt's over there, and she's just wild; but it doesn't matter."
"You're a good sport," says I, joinin' in the hand-clappin' to jog the
orchestra into givin' us a repeat.
And just as they starts up the tune again I happens to glance up into
the little visitors' balcony at the end of the ballroom. Who do you
guess I sees watchin' us bug-eyed and open-mouthed? Why, Izzy Budheimer
and Miss Tessie! See? They've broke away from the lady shirtwaisters
durin' the supper hour so Izzy can give his new girl a glimpse of what a
real swell dance is like. Maybe he planned on stoppin' in at the
cloakroom too, and seein' if I was holdin' down the job proper.
Anyway, I can't blame him for doin' the open-face act when he discovers
me out on the floor with the belle of the ball. But all I has time to do
is send him up the chilly stare, and away we go again into another
one-two-three dream--me and Miss Vee.
"I don't care what becomes of me," she hums over my shoulder.
"Me either," says I.
"Silly boy!" says she. "What's your name?"
"Just Torchy," says I, "after my hair."
"I think curly red hair is cute," says she.
"I could go hoarse sayin' things like that about you," says I.
Maybe it was lucky, too, that this second installment was short, or I
might have gone clean mushy; for the way she could look at me out of
them big gray eyes of hers was--well, it was the real thing in thrills.
The wind-up came just as we gets around near the cloakroom door and we
stops.
"It was awfully good of you," says she.
"Gee!" says I. "Why, I could wear out all my old shoes doin' that, and
if ever you need----"
"S-s-sh!" says she. "Here comes my aunt!"
Not waitin' for any further diagram of the situation, I makes a dash
into the cloakroom, where I finds Izzy Budheimer gazin' puzzled at
Bobby, who's sittin' tilted back in his shirt sleeves with the braided
coat slung on the floor.
"Look here, Torchy!" begins Izzy. "What the----"
"On the job, Izzy, if you want to save it!" says I, wigglin' out of
Master Bobby's expensive clothes and chuckin' 'em at him.
"But why--what----" says Izzy, tryin' again.
"Don't stop to ask fool questions of a busy society man," says I; "but
jump into your uniform, get in your coop there, and prepare to put the
timelock on your conversation works. In about a minute there'll be a
delegation of old hens in here lookin' for a mysterious young gent with
incendiary hair who has disappeared. Your cue is to look innocent and
not know anything about it. See? If there's any explainin' to be done,
let Bobby do it."
"Oh, I say!" groans Bobby, jumpin' up, and by the time I've struck the
bottom stair on my way out he's grabbed his overcoat and is beatin' it
down to find his carriage.
How Miss Vee squared it with Aunty is a puzzle I never expect to find
out the answer to; but I'll risk her. She's a pink queen, she is, and
after that one waltz with her I can look cold-eyed at a row of Tessie
girls stretchin' from here to the Battery!