THROWING THE LINE TO SKID
Say, this is twice I've been let in wrong on Skid Mallory. Remember him,
don't you? Well, he's our young college hick that I helped steer up
against Baron Kazedky when he landed that big armor plate order. Did
they make Skid a junior partner for that, or paint his name on a private
office door? Not so you'd notice it. Maybe they was afraid a sudden
boost like that would make him dizzy. But they promotes him to the sales
department and adds ten to his pay envelope. I was most as tickled over
it as Mallory was, too.
"Didn't I tell you?" says I. "You're a comer, you are! Why, I expect in
ten or a dozen years more you'll be sharin' in the semi-annuals and
ridin' down to the office in a taxi."
"Perhaps I may, Torchy--in ten or a dozen years," says he, kind of slow
and sober.
I could guess what he was thinking of then. It was the girl, that sweet
young thing that Brother Dick towed in here along last winter, some
Senator's daughter that Skid had got chummy with when he was doin' his
great quarterback act and havin' his picture printed in the sportin'
extras.
"How's that affair comin' on?" says I; for I ain't heard him mention her
in quite some time.
"It's all off," says he, shruggin' them wide shoulders of his. "That is,
there never was anything in it, you know, to begin with."
"Oh, there wa'n't, eh?" says I. "Forgot all about that picture you used
to carry around in the little leather case, have you?"
Skid, he flushes up a bit at that, and one hand goes up to his left
inside pocket. Then he laughs foolish. "It isn't I who have forgotten,"
says he.
"Oh-ho!" says I. "Well, I wouldn't have thought her the kind to shift
sudden, when she seemed so----"
But Mallory gives me the choke off sign, and as we walks up Broadway he
gradually opens up more and more on the subject until I've got a fair
map of the situation. Seems that Sis ain't exactly set him adrift
without warnin'. He'd sort of helped cut the cable himself. She'd begun
by writin' to him every week, tellin' him all about the lively season
she was havin' in Washington, and how much fun she was gettin' out of
life. She even put in descriptions of her new dresses, and some of her
dance orders, and now and then a bridge score, or a hand painted place
card from some dinner she'd been to.
And Skid, thinkin' it all over in the luxury of his nine by ten boudoir,
got to wonderin' what attractions along that line he could hold out to a
young lady that was used to blowin' in more for one new spring lid than
he could earn in a couple of weeks.
"And orchids are her favorite flowers!" says he. "Ever buy any orchids,
Torchy?"
"Not guilty," says I; "but they ain't so high, are they, that you
couldn't splurge on a bunch now and then? What's the tariff on 'em,
anyway?"
"At times you can get real nice ones for a dollar apiece," says he.
"Phe-e-e-ew!" says I. "She has got swell tastes."
"It isn't her fault," says he. "She's never known anything different."
So what does Skid do but slow up on the correspondence, skippin' an
answer here and there, and coverin' only two pages when he did write.
For one thing, he didn't have so much to tell as she did. I knew that;
for I'd seen more or less of Mallory durin' the last few months, and I
knew he was playin' his cards close to his vest.
Not that he was givin' any real lifelike miser imitation; but he didn't
indulge in high priced cafe luncheons on Saturdays, like most of the
bunch; he'd scratched his entry at the college club; and he was soakin'
away his little surplus as fast as he got his fingers on it.
Course, that programme meant sendin' regrets to most of the invites he
got, and spendin' his evenin's where it didn't cost much to get in or
out. One frivolous way he had of killin' time was by teachin' 'rithmetic
to a class of new landed Zinskis at a settlement house over on the East
Side.
"Ah, what's the use?" I used to tell him. "They'd learn to do compound
interest on their fingers in a month, anyway, and the first thing you
know you'll be payin' rent to some of 'em."
But he was pretty level headed about most things, I will say that for
Mallory, specially the way he sized up this girl business. Seems at last
she got the idea he was grouchy at her about something; and when he
didn't deny, or come to the front with any reason--why, she just quit
sendin' the billy ducks.
"So you're never going to see her any more, eh?" says I.
"Well," says he, "I supposed until within an hour or so ago that I never
should. And then----Well, she's here, Torchy; came yesterday, and I
presume she expects to see me to-night."
"That's encouragin', anyway," says I.
But Mallory don't seem so much cheered up. It turns out that Sis is
spendin' a few days with friends here, waitin' for the rest of the
fam'ly to come on and sail for Europe. They're givin' a farewell dinner
dance for her, and Skid is on the list.
The trouble is he can't make up his mind whether to go or stay away. One
minute he's dead sure he won't, and the next minute he admits he don't
see what harm there would be in takin' one last look.
"But, then," says Mallory, "what good would that do?"
"I know," says I. "There's a young lady friend of mine on the other side
too. Say, Mallory, I guess we belong in the lobster class."
And when we splits up on the corner Skid has decided against the party
proposition, and goes off towards his boardin' house with his chin down
on his collar and his heels draggin'.
So I wa'n't prepared for the joyous smile and the frock coat regalia
that Mallory wears when he blows into the office about ten-forty-five
next forenoon. He's sportin' a spray of lilies of the valley in his
lapel, and swingin' his silver topped stick, and by the look on his
face you'd think he was hearin' the birdies sing in the treetops.
"Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee!" says I, throwin' open the brass gate for him.
"Is it a special holiday, or what?"
"It's a very special one," says he, thumpin' me on the back and
whisperin' husky in my ear. "Torchy, I'm married!"
"Wha-a-at!" I splutters. "Who to? When?"
"To Sis," says he, "half an hour ago."
"Eh?" says I. "Mean to say you've been and eloped with the Senator's
daughter?"
"Eloped!" says he, as though he'd never heard the word before. "Why,
no--er--that is, we just went out and--and----"
Oh, no, they hadn't eloped! They'd merely slid out of the ballroom about
three A.M., after dancin' seventeen waltzes together, snuggled into a
hansom cab, and rode around the park until daylight talkin' it over.
Then she'd slipped back into the house, got into her travelin' dress
while he was off changin' his clothes, met again at eight o'clock,
chased down to City Hall after a license, and then dragged a young
rector away from his boiled eggs and toast to splice 'em.
But Skid didn't call that elopin'. Why, Sis had left word with the
butler to tell her friends all about it, and the first thing they did
after it was over was to send a forty-word collect telegram to papa.
And Mallory, he'd just dropped around to arrange with Old Hickory for a
little vacation before they beat it for Atlantic City.
"So that ain't elopin', eh?" says I. "I expect you'd call that a
sixty-yard run on a forward pass, or something like that? Well, the old
man's inside. Luck to you."
Mallory wa'n't on the carpet long, and when he comes out I asks how he
made back.
"Oh, bully!" says he. "I'm to have ten days."
"With or without?" says I.
"Oh, I forgot to ask," says he.
Little things like bein' on the payroll or not wa'n't botherin' him
then. He gives me a bone crushin' grip and swings out to the elevator in
a rush; for he's been away from Sis nearly half an hour now.
Exceptin' a picture postcard or two, showin' the iron pier and a bathin'
scene, I didn't hear from Mr. and Mrs. Mallory for more'n a week. And
then one afternoon I gets a 'phone message from Skid, saying that
they're all settled in a little flat up on Washington Heights and
they'll be pleased to have me come up to dinner.
"It's our very first dinner, you know," says he, "and Sis is going to
get it all by herself. I suggested that we try the first one on you."
"That don't scare me any," says I. "I've lived on sinkers and pie too
long to duck amateur cookin'. I'll be there."
I was on the grin all the afternoon too, thinkin' of the joshes I was
goin' to hand him. At three minutes of closing time I was all ready to
sneak out, with one eye on the clock and the other on Piddie, when in
blows a ruby faced, thick waisted gent with partly gray hair, a
heavyweight jaw, and a keen pair of twinklin' gray eyes. He looks
prosperous and important, and he proceeds to act right to home.
"Boy," says he, pushin' through the gate, "is this the general office of
the Corrugated Trust Company?"
"Yep," says I. "That's what it says on the door."
"There is employed here, I understand," he goes on, "a young man by the
name of Mallory."
Say, I was wide awake at that. "Mallory?" says I. "I can find out. Did
you want to see him on business?"
"It is a personal matter," says he. "Is he here?"
"Now, let's not rush this," says I. "My orders is to find out----"
"Very well," says the gent, "there is my card. And perhaps I should
mention that I have the honor--er--I suppose, to be his father in law."
Say, and here I was, up against the Senator himself. Course it was my
cue to shrivel up and do the low salaam; but all I can think of at the
minute is to look him over and grin.
"Gee!" says I. "Then you're on his trail, eh?"
Maybe it was the grin fetched him; for them square mouth corners
flickers a little and he don't throw any fit. "Evidently you are
somewhat familiar with the circumstances," says he. "May I ask if you
are sufficiently favored with the confidence of my new son in law to
know where he and my--er--his wife happen, to be just now?"
"I admit it," says I; "but if you're thinkin' of springin' any hammer
music on Skid, you can look for another party, for you won't get it out
of me in a thousand years!"
"Ah!" says he. "I see Young Lochinvar has at least one champion. Allow
me to state that my intentions are pacific. My wife and I merely wish,
before sailing, to pay a formal call on our daughter and her new
husband. Now if you could give me their address----"
"Why, say, Senator," says I, "if you ain't lookin' to start anything, I
can do better. I'm going right up there myself this minute, and if
Mrs.----"
"She is waiting downstairs in the cab," says he. "Nothing would suit us
better."
And, say, maybe it wa'n't just what I should have done, but blamed if I
could see how to dodge it when it's up to me that way. So it's me
climbin' up on the front seat with the driver of a fancy hotel taxi,
papa and mamma behind, and off rolls the surprise party.
Well, you know them cut rate apartment houses, with a flossy reception
room, all marble slabs and burlap panels and no elevator. The West
Indian at the telephone exchange says we'll find the Mallorys on the top
floor back to the left. That meant four flights to climb, which might
account for the lack of conversation on the way up. Mallory, with his
coat off, his cuffs rolled back, and his face steamed up, answers the
ring himself.
"Ah, that you, Torchy?" says he. "We were just wondering if you
would----Why--er--ah----" and as he gets sight of the old couple out in
the dark hall he breaks off sudden.
"It's all right," says I. "He's promised to give the peace sign. You
know the Senator, don't you, Skid?"
"The Senator!" he gasps out.
"I believe I once had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Mallory," says the old
boy, comin' to the front graceful. "Hope you will pardon the intrusion;
but----"
Just then, though, Sis appears from the kitchen, her face all pink and
white, and her sleeves pushed up past the dimples in her elbows. Under a
thirty-nine-cent blue and white checked apron she's wearin' a lace party
dress that was a dream. It's an odd combination; but most anything would
look well on a little queen like her. She takes one look at Skid,
another at the Senator, and then behind the old man she spies Mother.
Well, it's just a squeal from one, and a sigh from the other, and then
they've made a rush to the center that wedges us all into that little
three-foot hall like it was the platform of a subway car, and before
anything more can be said they've gone to a fond clinch, each pattin'
the other on the back and passin' appropriate remarks.
Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the
programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only
long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they
could, and then back out dignified.
Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off
from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had we got
ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than
Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to
start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to
dinner, then.
At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real
worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to
be stumped as easy as that.
"Oh, goody!" says she, clappin' her hands. "But, Mother, what is it you
do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb
stew?"
"Dumplings! Lamb stew!" says Mother. "Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I
haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?"
"She doesn't," says Sis. "I am the cook, Mother."
Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and
Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a
tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long,
either.
"Ahem!" says he to Mallory. "Very cozy, indeed; but--er--not exactly
spacious."
"Four rooms and bath," says Mallory.
"Was--er--that the bathtub in there?" says the Senator, jerkin' his
thumb at the bathroot door. "I fancied it might be--er--a pudding dish.
Might I inquire what rent you pay for--er--all this?"
"Forty a month, sir," says Mallory.
"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin," says he. "And if it is not too
personal a question, your present salary is----"
"I'm getting twenty-five a week," says Skid, lookin' him straight
between the eyes.
"Then you have a private income, I presume?" says the Senator.
"Well," says Mallory, "my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every
Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds."
At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. "But--but how do
you expect," he goes on, "to--to----Pardon me, but I am getting
interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing
when you had the imp--er--when you married my daughter?"
He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the
bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made
in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that,
after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars
left in the treasury.
"Huh!" grunts the Senator. "Hence the lamb stew, eh? I don't wonder! So
you and Sis have undertaken to live in a forty-dollar apartment on a
twenty-five-dollar salary, have you?"
"That's what it looks like, sir," says Mallory.
"And who is the financial genius that is to manage this enterprise?"
says he.
"Why," says Skid, "Mrs. Mallory, I suppose. We have agreed that she
should."
"Sis, eh?" says the Senator, smilin' kind of grim. "Well, you have my
best wishes for your success."
Skid he flushes some behind the ears; but he only bows and says he's
much obliged. You couldn't blame him for feelin' cut up, either; for
it's all clear how the Senator has doped out an appeal for help within
thirty days, and is willin' to wait for the call. I'm no shark on the
cost of livin' myself; but even I could figure out a deficit. There's a
call to dinner just then, though, and we all gathers round the stew.
Anyway, it was meant for a lamb stew. The potatoes was some hard, the
gravy was so thin you'd thought it had been put in from the tea kettle
as an afterthought, and the dumplin's hadn't the puffin' out charm
worked on 'em for a cent. But the sliced carrots was kind of tasty and
went all right with the baker's bread if you left off the bargain
butter. Sis she tried to laugh at it all; but her eyes got kind of dewy
at the corners.
"Never mind, dear," says Mother. "I'll telegraph for our old Martha to
come on and cook for you."
"Why, certainly," says the Senator. "She could sleep on the fire escape,
you know."
And say, that last comic jab of his, and the effect it had on Mr. and
Mrs. Mallory, kind of got under my skin. I got to thinkin' hard and
fast, and inside of five minutes I stumbles onto an idea.
"Excuse me," says I to Skid; "but I guess I'll be on my way. I just
thought of a date I ought to keep."
And where do you expect I brings up? At the Ellins' mansion, down on the
avenue. First time I'd ever been there out of office hours; but the maid
says Mr. Ellins is takin' his coffee in the lib'ry and she'd see if he'd
let me in. Ah, sure he did, and we gets right down to cases.
"Remember how that assistant general manager stiff of yours fell down on
that public lands deal when you sent him to Washington last month?" says
I.
Old Hickory chokes some on a swallow of black coffee he's just hoisted
in; but he recovers enough to nod.
"Does he get the run?" says I.
"I neglected consulting you about it, Torchy," says he; "but his
resignation has been called for."
"Filled the job yet?" says I.
"Fortunately, no," says he, and I knew by the way he squints that he
thought he was bein' mighty humorous. "Possibly you could recommend his
successor?"
"Yep, I could," says I. "Would it help any to have some one who was son
in law to a Senator?"
"That," says Old Hickory, "would depend somewhat on which Senator was
his father in law."
"Well," says I, "there's his card."
"Eh?" says he, readin' the name. "Why--who----"
"Mallory," says I. "You know--hitched last week. He's got the old boy up
there to dinner now. Maybe he'll be taken on as the Senator's secretary
if you don't jump in quick. He's a hustler, Mallory is. Remember how he
skinned that big order out of Kazedky? And as an A. G. M. he'd be a
winner. Well, does he get it?"
"Young man," says Old Hickory, catchin' his breath, "if my mental
machinery worked at the high pressure speed yours does, I could----But I
am not noted for being slow. I've done things in a hurry before. I can
yet. Torchy, he does get it."
"When?" says I.
"To-morrow morning," says he. "I'll start him at five thousand."
"Whoop!" says I. "Say, you're a sport! I'll go up and deliver the glad
news. Guess he needs it now as much as he ever will."
And, say, you should have seen the change of heart that comes over the
Senator when he heard the bulletin. "Mallory, my boy," says he,
"congratulations. And by the way, just remove that--er--imitation lamb
stew. Then we'll all go down to some good hotel and have a real
dinner."