A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY
And here all along I'd been kiddin' myself that I was a perfectly good
private sec. Also I had an idea the Corrugated Trust was one of the main
piers that kept New York from slumpin' into the North River, and that
the boss, Old Hickory Ellins, was sort of a human skyscraper who loomed
up as imposin' in the financial foreground as the Metropolitan Tower
does on the picture post-cards that ten-day trippers mail to the folks
back home.
Not that I'd been workin' up any extra chest measure since I've had an
inside desk and had connected with a few shares of our preferred stock;
I always did feel more or less that way about our concern. And the
closer I got to things, seein' how wide our investments was scattered
and how many big deals we stood behind, the surer I was that we was
important people.
And then, in trickles this smooth-haired young gent with the broad _a_'s
and the full set of _thé dansant_ manners, to show me where I'm wrong
on all counts. He'd succeeded in convincin' Vincent-on-the-gate that
nobody around the shop would do but Mr. Ellins himself, so here was Old
Hickory standin' in the door of his private office with the card in his
hand and starin' puzzled at this immaculate symphony in browns.
"Eh?" says he. "You're from Runyon, are you? Well, I wired him to stop
off on his way through and have luncheon with me at the Union League.
Know anything about that, do you?"
"Mr. Runyon regrets very much," says the young gent, "that he will be
unable to accept your kind invitation. He is on his way to Newport, you
know, and----"
"Yes, I understand all that," breaks in Old Hickory. "Daughter's
wedding. But that isn't until next week, and while he was in town I
thought we might have a little chat and settle a few things."
"Quite so," says the symphony. "Precisely why he sent me up, sir--to
talk over anything you might care to discuss."
"With you!" snorts Old Hickory. "Who the brocaded buckboards are you?"
"Mr. Runyon's secretary, sir," says the young gent. "Bixby's the name,
sir, as you will see by the card, and----"
"Ha!" growls old Hickory. "So that's Marc Runyon's answer to me, is it?
Sends his secretary! Very well; you may talk with _my_ secretary.
Torchy!"
"Right here!" says I, slidin' to the front.
"Take this person somewhere," says Mr. Ellins, jerkin' his thumb at
Bixby; "instruct him what to tell his master about how we regard that
terminal hold-up; then dust him off carefully and lead him to the
elevator."
"Got you!" says I, salutin'.
You might think that would have jolted Mr. Bixby. But no. He gets the
door shut in his face without even blinkin' or gettin' pink under the
eyes. Don't even indulge in any shoulder shrugs or other signs of
muffled emotion. He just turns to me calm and remarks businesslike:
"At your service, sir."
Now, say, this lubricated diplomacy act ain't my long suit as a general
thing, but I couldn't figure a percentage in puttin' over any more rough
stuff on Bixby. It rolled off him too easy. Course, it might be all
right for Mr. Ellins to get messy or blow a gasket if he wanted to; but
I couldn't see that it was gettin' us anywhere. He hadn't planned this
luncheon affair just for the sake of being sociable--I knew that much.
The big idea was to get next to Marcus T. Runyon and thresh out a
certain proposition on a face-to-face basis. And if he chucked that
overboard because of a whim, we stood to lose.
It was up to me now, though. Maybe I couldn't be as smooth as this Bixby
party, but I could make a stab along that line. It would be good
practice, anyhow. So I tows him over to my corner, and arranges him easy
in an armchair.
"As between private secs, now," says I, "what's puttin' up the bars on
this get-together motion, eh?"
Well, considerin' that Bixby is English and don't understand the
American language very well, we got along fine. Once or twice, there, I
thought I should have to call in an interpreter; but by bein' careful to
state things simple, and by goin' over some of the points two or three
times slow, we managed to make out what each other meant.
It seems that Marcus T. is more or less of a frail and tender party.
Dashin' out for a Union League luncheon, fillin' himself up on _poulet
en casserole_ and such truck, not to mention Martinis and demi-tasses
and brunette perfectos, was clean out of the question.
"My word!" says Bixby, rollin' his eyes. "His physician would never
allow it, you know."
"Suppose he took a chance and didn't tell the doc?" I suggests.
"Impossible," says Bixby. "He is with him constantly--travels with him,
you understand."
I didn't get it all at first, but I sopped it up gradual. Marcus T.
wasn't takin' any casual flit from his Palm Beach winter home to his
Newport summer place. No jumpin' into a common Pullman for him, joinin'
the smokin'-room bunch, and scrabblin' for his meals in the diner.
Hardly.
He was travelin' in his private car, with his private secretary, his
private physician, his trained nurse, his private chef, and most likely,
his private bootblack. And he was strictly under his doctor's orders. He
wasn't even goin' to have a peek at Broadway or Fifth Avenue; for,
although a suite had been engaged for him at the Plutoria, the Doc had
ruled against it only that mornin'. No; he had to stay in the private
car, that had been run on a special sidin' over in the Pennsylvania
yards.
"So you see," says Bixby, spreadin' out his varnished finger-nails
helpless. "And yet, I am sure he would very much like to have a chat
with his old friend Mr. Ellins."
I had all I could do to choke back a haw-haw. His old friend, eh? Oh, I
expect they might be called friends, in a way. They hadn't actually
stuck any knives into each other. And 'way back, when they was both
operatin' in Chicago, I understand they was together a good deal. But
since---- Well, maybe at a circus you've seen a couple of old tigers
pacin' back and forth in nearby cages and catchin' sight of one another
now and then? Something like that.
"Friend" wasn't the way Marcus T. was indexed on our books. If we
spotted any suspicious moves in the market, or found one of our
subsidiary companies being led astray by unseen hands, or a big contract
slippin' away mysterious, the word was always passed to "watch the
Runyon interests." And I'll admit that when the Corrugated saw an
openin' to put a crimp in a Runyon deal, or overbid 'em on a franchise,
or crack a ripe egg on one of their bond issues, we only waited long
enough for it to get dark before gettin' busy. Oh, yes, we was real
chummy that way.
And then again, with the Runyon system touchin' ours in so many spots,
we had a lot of open daylight dealin's. We interlocked here and there;
we had joint leases, trackage agreements, and so on, where we was just
as trustin' of each other as a couple of gentlemen crooks dividin' the
souvenirs after an early mornin' call at a country-house.
This terminal business Old Hickory had mentioned was a sample. Course, I
only knew about it in a vague sort of way: something about ore docks up
on the Lakes. Anyway, it was a case where the Runyon people had hogged
the waterfront and was friskin' us for tonnage charges on every steamer
we loaded.
I know it was something that had to be renewed annual, for I'd heard Mr.
Ellins beefin' about it more'n once. Last year, I remember, he was worse
than usual, which was accounted for later by the fact that the ton rate
had been jumped a couple of cents. And now it had been almost doubled.
No wonder he wanted a confab with Marcus T. on the subject. And, from
where I stood, it looked like he ought to have it, grouch or no grouch.
"Bixby," says I, "Mr. Ellins would just grieve himself sick if this
reunion he's planned don't come off. Now, what's the best you can do?"
"If Mr. Ellins could come to the private car----" begins Bixby.
"Say," I breaks in, "you wouldn't ask him to climb over freight-cars and
dodge switch-engines just for old times' sake, would you?"
Bixby holds up both hands and registers painful protest.
"By no means," says he. "We would send the limousine for Mr. Ellins,
have it wait his convenience, and drive him directly to the car steps. I
think I can arrange the interview for any time between two-thirty and
four o'clock this afternoon."
"Now, that's talkin'!" says I. "I'll see what I can do with the boss.
Wait, will you?"
Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. Old
Hickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage on
a black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off I
explains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about the
trained nurse and the private physician.
"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am.
Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why,
I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap of
luxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar fee
to a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring a
private physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"
"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests.
Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless.
"No," says he.
Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' his
lower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, or
something like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. I
drops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:
"Well, son?"
"If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousine
will be waiting."
"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminal
lease. Shall I dig it up?"
"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bring
along anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entire
retinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-toned
secretary."
"Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like an
outside porter. But I'll go wind myself up."
All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff.
And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes after
I'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe,
two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin'
maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise to
the fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but I
can absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get my
mind pores open.
At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap of
back-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave in
some of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent for
one of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidation
shake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in our
general offices. Just on a chance, I pushes the button for him.
Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet little
Scotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers,
he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters than
I do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry of
how we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had been
called in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out.
I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while we
munched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out old
letters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by three
P.M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-index
of 'em in my so-called brain.
"When you're ready, Mr. Ellins," says I, standin' by with my hat in my
hand.
"Oh, yes," says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair.
And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeur
waitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolled
across Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shiny
private car with a brass-bound bay-window on one end and flower-boxes
hung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happy
little home on wheels.
Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us.
Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held my
breath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as a
steel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give us
the hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin'
under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule.
"So good of you, Mr. Ellins," he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in?
Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, you
know. This way, gentlemen."
Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Once
inside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of a
perfectly good drawin'-room--easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vases
full of roses, double hangin's at the windows.
"Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir.
Pardon me a moment."
Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' how
the light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out a
foot-rest--like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right in
the midst of it I near spilled the beans by pullin' an afternoon edition
out of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "But
may I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling of
newspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready."
I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he's
off to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap is
peekin' through the draperies.
Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute--two
minutes. And finally the procession appears.
First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray;
and after them a valet and the private physician with the great Marcus
T. walkin' slow between.
He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short,
poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but had
shrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at his
mouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sort
of a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keen
pair of eyes that seem to take in everything.
Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a social
error. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is.
With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over the
chair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They ease
Runyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By an
eyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray.
It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. When
it's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade back
through the draperies.
"Hello, Ellins," says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wreck
like me."
I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummy
that way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even Old
Hickory must have felt something as I did.
"I--I didn't know," says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?"
"Oh, it's nothing," says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-odd
years of hard living by--by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sour
milk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look as
though you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in the
State Street days, eh?"
First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, there
was Bixby all the time, standin' behind watchful. And right in the
middle of a sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon a
glass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. would take a sip
obedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there's
anything special he can do for Mr. Ellins.
"Why, yes," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off your
highwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless you
mean to take all of our mining profits."
Marcus T.'s eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle.
"Bixby," says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in the
tonnage rate to the Corrugated?"
"I think so, sir," says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir."
"Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up."
"He needn't," says Old Hickory. "It's been doubled, that's all. We had
the notice last week. Torchy, did you----"
"Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him.
"Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have been
some well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must----"
"It's because you think you've got us in a hole," breaks in Old Hickory.
"We've got to load our boats and you control the docks."
"Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation--for you. But I
presume there are other dockage facilities available."
"If there were," says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would be
paying you from three to five millions a year?"
"Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully," goes on Mr.
Runyon.
"Oh, certainly," says Bixby. "I will have a full report prepared
and----"
"Suppose you tell it to my secretary now," insists Old Hickory, glarin'
menacin' at him.
"Do so, Bixby," says Marcus T.
"Why--er--you see," says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand the
case, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to----"
"What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in.
"Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague.
"Precisely," says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plenty
of unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connect
with that port."
"They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at Tamarack
Junction," says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of way
cleared."
"Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. Tamarack
Junction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors."
"You mean you did hold it," says I.
"I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'.
"It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by a
Minnesota notary public. See the date?"
"Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it.
Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he.
"It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of----"
"Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there.
That would cut our haul about fifteen miles."
"And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh,
Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by the
time the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new light
on the situation, doesn't it?"
Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy.
"Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby.
Perhaps, though, you can offer----"
He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is.
"Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front of
Runyon.
For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then his
shoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass.
He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity.
"And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby.
"I will call him."
As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out a
sigh.
"It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion and
still enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Name
your own terms for continuing that terminal lease."
Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the price
they're bringin' now.
"And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your young
man? I'm just curious."
"Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred."
"Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, but
he remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing three
thousand."
I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out--I tried to smother it.
And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is to
grin at the boss.
"Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I.
"Dollars," says he. "Beginning to-day."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take a
special course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job."