TORCHY IN THE GAZINKUS CLASS
I expect I'll get used to it all in time. This rural stuff, I mean. But
it ain't goin' to come easy. When you've been brought up to think of
home as some place where you've got a right to leave your trunk as long
as you pay the rent prompt,--a joint where you have so many square feet
of space on a certain floor, and maybe eight or ten inches of brick and
plaster between you and a lot of strangers,--and then all of a sudden
you switch to a whole house that's all yours, with gobs of land all
around it, and trees and bushes and things that you can do what you like
with--well, it's sort of staggerin' at first.
Why, the day Vee and I moved into this Harbor Hills place that I'd made
the swift trade for with MacGregor Shinn, we just had our baggage dumped
in the middle of the livin'-room, chucked our wraps on some chairs, and
went scoutin' around from one room to another for over an hour, kind of
nutty and excited.
"Oh, look, Torchy!" Vee would exclaim about twice a minute when she
discovered something new.
You know, we'd been in the house only once before, and then we'd looked
around just casual. And if you want to find out how little you really
see when you think you're lookin', you want to make a deal like that
once--buy a joint just as it stands, and then, a few days after, camp
down in it and tot up what you've really got. Why, say, you'd 'most
thought we'd been blindfolded that first time.
Course, this was different. Now we was takin' stock, you might say, of
the things we was goin' to live with. And, believe me, I never had any
idea I'd ever own such a collection, or so big a slice of the U. S. A.
"Only think, Torchy," says Vee, after we've made the rounds inside. "Ten
rooms, just for us!"
"Twelve, countin' the cellar and attic," says I. "But there's more
outside, ain't there?"
Yep, there was. There was an old stable that had been turned into a
garage, with a couple of rooms finished off upstairs. Then there was a
carriage shed, with more rooms over that, also a chicken house beyond.
And stowed away in odd corners was all kinds of junk that might be more
or less useful to have: a couple of lawn-mowers, an old sleigh hoisted
up on the rafters of the carriage house, a weird old buggy, a plow, a
grindstone, a collection of old chairs and sofas that had seen better
days, a birch-bark canoe--things like that.
Then there was our lily pond. We had to walk all round that, poke in
with a pole to see how deep it might be, and wonder if there was any
fish in it. On beyond was some trees--apple and pear and cherry,
accordin' to Vee, and 'way at the back a tall cedar hedge.
"Why, it's almost an estate," says Vee. "Nearly five acres, you know.
How does it seem, Torchy, to think that all this is ours?"
"How?" says I. "Why, I feel like I was the Grand Gazinkus of Gazook."
But, at that, my feelin's wa'n't a marker to the emotions Professor Leon
Battou, our artist-chef, manages to work up. He's so tickled at gettin'
back to the country and away from the city, where him and Madame Battou
come so near starvin' on the street, that he goes skippin' around like a
sunshine kid, pattin' the trees, droppin' down on his hands and knees in
the grass to dig up dandelions, and keepin' up a steady stream of
explosive French and rapid-fire English.
"Ah, but it is all so good!" says he. "_Le bleu ciel, les fleurs, les
oiseaux! C'est bonne, tres bonne. Ne c'est pas?_"
"I expect it is, Leon," says I. "Although I might not state it just that
way myself. Picked out a spot yet for your garden?"
Foolish question! That was his first move, after taking a glance at the
particular brand of cook-stove he'd got to wrestle with. Just to the
left of the kitchen wing is a little plot shut in by privet bushes and a
trellis, which is where he says the _fine herbes_ are meant to grow. He
tows us around there and exhibits it chesty. Mostly it's full of last
year's weeds; but he explains how he will soon have it in shape. And for
the next week the only way we ever got any meals cooked was because
Madame Battou used to go drag him in by the arm and make him quit
diggin' long enough to hash up some of them tasty dishes for us.
If all amateur gardeners are apt to go so dippy over it, I hope I don't
catch the disease. No danger, I guess. I made my stab at it about the
third day, when Vee wanted some ground spaded up for a pansy bed. And
say, in half an hour, there, I'd worked up enough palm blisters and
backache to last me a month. It may seem sport to some people, but to me
it has all the ear-marks of plain, hard work, such as you can indulge
in reg'lar by carryin' a foldin' dinner-pail and lettin' yourself out to
a padrone.
Leon, though, just couldn't seem to let it alone. He almost made a vice
of it, to my mind. Why, say, he's out there at first crack of day,
whenever that is; and in the evenin', as soon as he has served dinner,
he sneaks out to put in a few more licks, and stays until it's so dark
he can hardly find his way back.
You know all them window-boxes he had clutterin' up the studio
apartment. Well, he insists on cratin' every last one of 'em and
expressin' 'em along; and now he has all that alleged lettuce and
parsley and carrots and so on set out in neat little rows; and when he
ain't sprinklin' 'em with the hose or dosin' 'em with fertilizer, he's
out there ticklin' 'em with a rake.
"Gee!" says I. "I thought all you had to do to a garden was just to
chuck in the seeds and let 'em grow. But accordin' to your method it
would be less trouble bringin' up a pair of twins."
"Ah-h-h-h!" says he. "But monsieur has not the passion for growing green
things."
"Thanks be, then," says I. "It would land me in the liniment ward if I
had."
I must say, though, that Vee's 'most as bad with her flowers. Honest,
when she shows me where she's planned to have this and that, and hints
that I can get busy durin' my spare time with the spade, I almost wished
we was back in town.
"What?" I gasps. "Want me to excavate all that? Hal-lup!"
"Pooh!" says Vee. "It will do you good."
Maybe she thought so. But I knew it wouldn't. So I chases up the hill to
the Ellins place, and broke in on Mr. Robert just as he's finishin'
breakfast.
"Say," says I, "you ain't got a baby-grand steam-shovel or anything like
that around the place, have you?"
He says he's sorry, but he ain't. When he hears what I'm up against,
though, he comes to the rescue noble by lendin' me one of his expert
Dago soil-disturbers, at $1.75 per--and with Vee bossin' him she got the
whole job done in half a day. After that I begun to enjoy gardenin' a
bit more. I'm gettin' to be a real shark at it, too. And ambitious! You
ought to hear me.
"How about havin' a couple more lanes of string-beans laid out?" I
suggests. "And maybe a few hundred mounds of green corn, eh?"
And then I can watch Joe start the enterprise with a plow and an old
white horse, and I can go to the office feelin' that, no matter how much
I seem to be soldierin', as a matter of fact I'm puttin' in a full day's
work. When I get back in the afternoon, the first thing I want to see is
how much I've got done.
Not that I'm able to duck all kinds of labor that way. Believe me, a
country place is no loafin' spot, especially when it's new, or you're
new to it. Vee tends to that. Say, that girl can think up more odd forms
of givin' me exercise than a bunch of football coaches--movin' bureaus,
hangin' pictures, puttin' up curtain-rods, fixin' door-catches, and
little things like that.
Up to a few weeks ago all I knew about saws and screw-drivers and so on
was that they were shiny things displayed in the hardware store windows.
But if I keep on tacklin' all the odd jobs she sics me on to, I'll be
able to qualify pretty soon as a boss carpenter, a master plumber, and
an expert electrician.
Course, I gouge myself now and then. My knuckles look like I'd been
mixin' in a food riot, and I've spoiled two perfectly good suits of
clothes. But I can point with pride to at least three doors that I've
coaxed into shuttin', I've solved the mystery of what happens to a
window-weight when the sash-cord breaks, and I've rigged up two
drop-lights without gettin' myself electrocuted or askin' any advice
from Mr. Edison.
Which reminds me that what I can't seem to get used to about the country
is the poor way it's lighted up at night. You know, our place is out a
couple of miles from the village and the railroad station; and, while we
got electric bulbs enough in the house, outside there ain't a lamp-post
in sight. Dark! Say, after 8 P.M. you might as well be livin' in a
sub-cellar with the sidewalk gratin' closed. Honest, the only glim we
can see from our front porch is a flicker from the porte cochère at the
Ellinses' up on the hill, and most of that is cut off by trees and lilac
bushes.
Vee don't seem to mind, though. These mild evenin's recent, she's
dragged me out after dinner for a spell and made me sit with her
watchin' for the moon to come up. I do it, but it ain't anything I'm
strong for. I can't see the percentage in starin' out at nothing at all
but black space and guessin' where the driveway is or what them dark
streaks are. Then, there's so many weird sounds I can't account for.
"What's all that jinglin' going on?" I asks the other evenin'. "Sounds
like a squad of junkmen comin' up the pike."
"Silly!" says Vee. "Frogs, of course."
"Oh!" says I.
Then I listens some more, until something else breaks loose. It's sort
of a cross between the dyin' moan of a gyastacutus and the whine of a
subway express roundin' a sharp curve.
"For the love of Pete," I breaks out, "what do you call that?"
Vee chuckles. "Didn't you see the calf up at Mr. Robert's?" she asks.
"Well, that's the old cow calling to him."
"If she feels as bad as that," says I, "I wish she'd wait until mornin'
to express herself. That's the most doleful sound I ever heard. Come on;
let's go in while you tinkle out something lively and cheerin' on the
piano."
I never thought I was one of the timid kind, either. Course, I'm no
Carnegie hero, or anything like that; but I've always managed to get
along in the city without developin' a case of nerves. Out here, though,
it's different. Two or three evenin's now I've felt almost jumpy, just
over nothing at all, it seems.
Maybe that's why I didn't show up any better, here the other night, when
Vee rings in this silent alarm on me. I was certainly poundin' my ear
industrious when gradually I gets the idea that someone is shakin' me by
the shoulders. It's Vee.
"Torchy," she whispers husky. "Get up."
"Eh?" says I, pryin' my eyes open reluctant. "Get up? Wha-wha' for?"
"Oh, don't be stupid about it," says she. "I've been trying to rouse you
for five minutes. Please get up and come to the window."
"Nothing doing," says I snugglin' into the pillow again. "I--I'm busy."
"But you must," says she. "Listen. I think someone is prowling around
the house."
"Let 'em ramble, then," says I. "What do we care?"
"But suppose it's a--a burglar?" she whispers.
I'll admit that gives me a goose-fleshy feelin' down the spine. It's
such a disturbin' word to have sprung on you in the middle of the night.
"Let's not suppose anything of the sort," says I.
"But I'm sure I saw someone just now, when I got up to fix the shade,"
insists Vee. "Someone who stepped out into the moonlight right there,
between the shadows of those two trees. Then he disappeared out that
way. Come and look."
Well, I was up by then, and half awake, so I tries to peer out into the
back yard. I'm all for grantin' a general alibi, though.
"Maybe you was only dreamin', Vee," says I. "Anyway, let's wait until
mornin', and then----"
"There!" she breaks in excited. "Just beyond the garden trellis. See?"
Yep. There's no denyin' that someone is sneakin' around out there. First
off I thought it might be a female in a white skirt and a raincoat; but
when we gets the head showin' plain above some bushes we can make out a
mustache.
"It's a man!" gasps Vee, clutchin' me by the sleeve.
"Uh-huh," says I. "So it is."
"Well?" says Vee.
I expect that was my cue to come across with the bold and noble acts.
But, somehow, I didn't yearn to dash out into the moonlight in my
pajamas and mix in rough with a total stranger. But I didn't mean to
give it away if I could help it.
"Got a nerve, ain't he?" says I. "Let's wait; maybe he'll fall into the
pond."
"How absurd!" says Vee. "No; we must do something right away."
"Of course," says I. "I'll shout and ask him what the blazes he thinks
he's doin'."
"Don't," says Vee. "There may be others--in the house. And before you
let him know you see him, you ought to be armed. Get your revolver."
At that I just gawped at Vee, for she knows well enough I don't own
anything more deadly than a safety razor, and that all the gun-play I
ever indulged in was once or twice at a Coney Island shootin' gallery
where I slaughtered a clay pipe by aimin' at a glass ball.
"Whaddye mean, revolver?" I asks.
"S-s-s-sh!" says she. "There's that Turkish pistol, you know, that Mr.
Shinn left hanging over the mantel in the living-room."
"Think it's loaded?" I whispers.
"It might be," says Vee. "Anyway, it's better than nothing. Let's get
it."
"All right," says I. "Soon as I get something on. Just a sec."
So I jumps into a pair of trousers and a coat and some bath slippers,
while Vee throws on a dressin'-sack. We feels our way sleuthy
downstairs, and after rappin' my shins on a couple of rockers I gets
down the old pistol. It's a curious, wicked-lookin' antique about two
feet long, with a lot of carvin' and silver inlay on the barrel. I'd
never examined the thing to see how it worked, but it feels sort of
comfortin' just to grip it in my hand. We unlocks the back door easy.
"Now you stay inside, Vee," says I, "while I go scoutin' and----"
"No indeed," says Vee. "I am going too."
"But you mustn't," I insists.
"Hush!" says she. "I shall."
And she did. So we begins our first burglar hunt as a twosome, and I
must say there's other sports I enjoy more. Out across the lawn we
sneaks, steppin' as easy as we can, and keepin' in the shadow most of
the time.
"Guess he must have skipped," says I.
"But he was here only a moment ago," says Vee. "Don't you know, we saw
him---- Oh, oh!"
I don't blame her for gaspin'. Not twenty feet ahead of us, crouchin'
down in the cabbage patch, is the villain. Just why he should be tryin'
to hide among a lot of cabbage plants not over three inches high, I
don't stop to think. All I knew was that here was someone prowlin'
around at night on my premises, and all in a flash I begins to see red.
Swingin' Vee behind me, I unlimbers the old pistol and cocks it. I
didn't care whether this was the open season for burglars or not. I
wanted to get this one, and get him hard.
Must have been a minute or more that I had him covered, tryin' to steady
my arm so I could keep the muzzle pointed straight at his back, when all
of a sudden he lifts his right hand and begins scratchin' his ear.
Somehow, that breaks the spell. Why should a burglar hump himself on his
hands and knees in a truck patch and stop to scratch his ear?
"Hey, you!" I sings out real crisp.
Maybe that ain't quite the way to open a line of chat with a midnight
marauder. I've been kidded about it some since; but at the time it
sounded all right. And it had the proper effect. He comes up on his toes
with his hands in the air, like he was worked by springs.
"That's right; keep your paws up," says I. "And, remember, if you go to
makin' any funny moves----"
"Why, Torchy!" exclaims Vee, grabbin' my shootin' arm. "It's Leon!"
"Wha-a-a-at!" says I, starin' at this wabbly party among the coldslaw.
But it's Professor Battou, all right. He's costumed in a night-shirt, an
old overcoat, and a pair of rubbers; and he certainly does look odd,
standin' there in the moonlight with his elbows up and his knees
knockin' one another.
"Well, well, Leon!" says I, sighin' relieved. "So it's you, is it? And
we had you all spotted as a second-story worker. All right; you don't
need to hold the pose any longer. But maybe you'll tell us what you're
crawlin' around out here in the garden for at this time of night."
He tried to, but he's had such a scare thrown into him that his
conversation works are all gummed up. After we've led him into the
house, though, and he's had a drink of spring water, he does a little
better.
"It was to protect the cabbages, monsieur," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "Protect 'em from what?"
"There is a wicked worm," says Leon, "which does his evil work in the
night. Ah, such a sly beast! And so destructive! Just at the top of the
young root he eats--snip, snip! And in the morning I find that two,
four, sometimes six tender plants he has cut off. I am enrage. 'Ha!' I
say. 'I will discover you yet at your mischief.' So I cannot sleep for
thinking. But I had found him; yes, two. And I was searching for more
when monsieur----"
"Yes, I know," says I. He's glancin' worried at the old pistol I'm still
holdin' in my hand. "My error, Leon. I might have guessed. And as the
clock's just strikin' three, I think we'd all better hit the hay again.
Come on, Vee; it's all over."
And, in spite of that half hour or so of time out, I was up earlier than
usual in the mornin'. I had a little job to do that I'd planned out
before I went to sleep again. As soon as I'm dressed I slips downstairs,
takes that Turkish pistol, and chucks it into the middle of the pond.
I'll never know whether it was loaded or not. I don't want to know. For
if it had been---- Well, what's the use?
Comin' back in through the kitchen, I finds Leon busy dishin' up toast
and eggs. He glances at me nervous, and then hangs his head. But he gets
out what he has to say man fashion.
"I trust monsieur is not displeased," says he. "It was not wise for me
to walk about at night. But those wicked worms! Still, if monsieur
desires, it shall not occur again. I ask pardon."
"Now, that's all right, Leon," says I soothin'. "Don't worry. When it
comes to playin' the boob act, I guess we split about fifty-fifty. I'd a
little rather you didn't, but if you must hunt the wicked worm at night,
why, go to it. You won't run any more risk of being shot up by me. For
I've disarmed."