BATTING IT UP TO TORCHY
Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair
behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living
joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of
course.
And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any
mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage
Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he
wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet
smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst
of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the
payroll--why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.
"Say, Piddie," says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in,
"who's the seed, eh?"
"That?" says Piddie. "Oh, that's old Dudley."
"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar," says I, "or is he celebratin' some
anniversary?"
And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the
same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last
fifteen years.
"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right," says I. "What is he, one of the
directors?"
No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of
eighteen per. You know the kind--one of these deadwood specimens that
stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up.
Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak
leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic
supplements.
Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest
old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and
walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded
umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears
puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into
account at all.
Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see
me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on
Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over
something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!
All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old
smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times
gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I
can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy
doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less
thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and
then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub
it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley--well, what's the use?
So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur
cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then
little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me
steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And,
say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the
armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend;
him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me--well,
I guess you get the tableau.
I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand
of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods.
Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California
somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin'
business. Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up
with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip.
But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems
to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected
to anything or not.
He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over
in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him
tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy
proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb
brokerage firm that rents window space on Broad-st. and has desk room
down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his
deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before
the year is out.
And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the
fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old
man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he
has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as
well as he can.
"So you came over with the old sport, did you?" says Bennett to me.
"Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long.
Manages to hang on with the Corrugated, though, don't he? He'd better,
too! I'm not running any old folks' home here."
But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle
Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a
twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more
even at the office.
It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got
me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of
displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some class to it.
Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at
sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's
this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth
livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett.
"Say, Dudley," says I, "why don't you work a combination of the two; go
out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad
ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?"
"I--I can't do that, just yet," says he, sort of hesitatin'. "You see,
he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have--er--well,
I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of
life, and if I gave up here and went on to him--why----"
"I'm on," says I. "He'd spot you for one of the down-and-outers. But
you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?"
"From Bennett?" says he. "Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how
useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at
the bottom and prop the ladder."
One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all
meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful
around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they
think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a
week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out
this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much
more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people
don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white
mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps
him down.
And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped
out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid
liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered
first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last
swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say,
anyone would think, from some of the papers, that we was all a bunch of
crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills
to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough,
though!
"Why," I heard him say to the old man, "it's a beastly outrage, that's
what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you
know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the
tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a
denial."
"Huh!" growls Old Hickory. "Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they
say we did? Let 'em prove it!"
Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee,
and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the
Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that
mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first
one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited
he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops
to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips
up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder.
"Ye-e-e-es, sir!" says he, before he sees who it is.
"Never mind, Piddie," says I. "I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not
guilty?' But what's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it."
"You--you impudent young sauce box!" he begins. "How dare you----"
"Ah, save that for the subpoena server," says I. "He'll be in here
after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten
years on the rockpile."
When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big
guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise
and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and
whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the
gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your
nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had
marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much
surprised.
Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer,
and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all
sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at
the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar butt
between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare
into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all.
"Boy," says he, "bring in Dudley."
"Yes, sir," says I.
But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what
they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess
that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on
his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious
as if nothin' special was goin' on.
"Dudley," says I, "are you feelin' strong?"
"Why, Torchy," says he, "I am feeling about as usual, thank you."
"Well, brace yourself then," says I; "for there's rough goin' ahead.
You're wanted in on the carpet."
"Me?" says he. "Mr. Ellins wants me?"
"Uh-huh," says I, "him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any
spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I
know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of
soup put up a front to-day!"
Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin'
his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade.
Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't
have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls
into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch
writin' away again.
"Say, are you it?" says I.
[Illustration: WE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT PAIR.]
"Why, how is that?" says he.
"Did they tie anything to you?" says I. "You know--con you into takin'
the blame, or anything like that?"
"Blame for what?" says he. "I don't believe I understand. But nothing of
the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my
work."
"Oh!" says I. "That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?"
"No," says he. "The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation."
"What! Quittin'?" says I. "Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you
in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail
inside of forty-eight hours--and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley,
take my advice and tear that up."
"But I can't, Torchy," says he, "really, I can't."
"Why not?" says I. "You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll
you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you
so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?"
He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it
stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar
double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they
want him to do is to take descriptions of a couple of checks, dig up
the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice
new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose.
"But what checks?" says I. "The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?"
"Why, yes," says he. "How did you know?"
"Ah, how did I----Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers
lately?" says I.
Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air
than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone
that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his
whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers
don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to
use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version.
"Well, why not do it?" says I. "What's that to you?"
"Why, don't you see," says he, "it would be making a false entry,
and--I--I----Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and
I can't begin now."
And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony
bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if
he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with
Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets
the sack!
"Do you mean it?" says I.
He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to
read.
"Say, Dudley," says I, lookin' him up and down, "this listens to me like
a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty.
There's no ocher streak in you."
"I hoped you would understand," says he. "In the circumstances, it was
all I could do, you see."
"What I see plainer'n anything else," says I, "is that if this goes
through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed
in?"
"As soon as possible," says he. "I suppose I ought to resign at once."
"Resign!" says I. "You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked
through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I
spring this on Mr. Ellins."
Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin'
up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a
vacation.
And while I'm tryin' to make up my mind how to deliver this document to
the main stem and duck an ambulance ride afterwards, the directors'
meetin' breaks up. So I finds Old Hickory alone in his private office
and slips it casual on the pad in front of him.
"Here, what's this?" he snorts, callin' me back as he opens up the
sheet. "Eh? Dudley! Resigns, does he! What, that dried up, goat faced,
custard brained, old----Say, boy; ask him what the grizzly grindstones
he means by----"
"I did," says I, "and, if you want to know, he's quittin' because he's
too straight to cook up the books the way you told him."
"Cook up the books!" gasps Old Hickory, gettin' raspb'ry tinted in the
face and displayin' neck veins like a truck horse. "He's been welshing,
has he? Perhaps he'd like to turn State's witness? Well, by the great
sizzling skyrockets, if that's his trick, I'll give him enough of----"
"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," I breaks in, "but you're slippin' your clutch.
Tricks! Why, he ain't even wise to what you want him to do it for. All
he knows is that it's crooked, and he renigs on a general proposition.
And, say, when a man's as straight as that, with the workhouse starin'
him in the face, he's too valuable to lose, ain't he?"
"Wha-a-at?" gurgles Old Hickory.
"Besides," says I, hurryin' the words to get 'em all out before any
violent scene breaks loose, "knowin' all he does about them Mutt & Mudd
checks, and with what he don't know about the case, it wouldn't be
hardly safe to have him roamin' the streets, would it? Now I leave it to
you."
Say, I was lookin' Old Hickory right in the eye, ready to dodge the
inkstand or anything else, while I was puttin' that over, and for a
minute I thought it was comin' sure. But while he can get as hot under
the collar as anyone I ever saw, and twice as quick, he don't go clear
off his nut any of the time.
"Young man," says he, calmin' down and motionin' me to a chair, "as
usual, you seem to be more or less well informed on this matter
yourself. Now let's have the rest of it."
And just like that, all of a sudden, it's batted up to me. So I lets it
come, with all the details about Uncle Dudley's frosty home life, and
the reformer son out West that still thinks father is makin' good. He
sits there and listens to every word too. Not that he comes in with the
sympathetic sigh, or shows signs of being troubled by mist in the eye
corners. He just throws in an occasional grunt now and then and drums
his fat finger-tips on the chair arm.
"Huh!" says he. "Babes and sucklings! But I've had worse advice that has
cost me a lot more. Well, I suppose an old fool like that is dangerous
to have drifting around. But I don't want him here just now, either.
Um-m-m! Where did you say this son of his lived?"
"Just out of Los Angeles," says I.
"All right," says Old Hickory. "Tell him he goes west Tuesday as
traveling auditor to our second vice president. He'll bring up at Los
Angeles about the middle of the month--and about that time it may happen
that he'll be retired on full pay. But I'll keep this resignation, as a
curiosity."
Now don't ask me to describe how old Dudley takes it; for when he gets
the full partic'lars of the decision it near keels him over. And what
part of it do you say tickles him most? That the books don't have to be
juggled!
"It wasn't like Mr. Ellins to countenance an act of that sort, not in
the least," says he, "and I am very glad that he has changed his mind."
"Say, Dudley," says I, "you're a wonder, you are."
And it was all I could do to keep from askin' him if he thought he owned
the only bottle of ink eradicator there was in New York.
Do I know who did fix up them entries? Well, by the nervous motions of a
certain party next mornin', I could give a guess.
"Piddie," says I, "if they ever get you on the stand, you want to wear
interferin' pads between your knees, so they won't hear the bones
rattle."