FORSYTHE AT THE FINISH
I expect I wouldn't have noticed Forsythe particular if it hadn't been
for Mrs. Robert. It takes all kinds, you know, to make up a week-end
house-party bunch; and in these days, when specimens of the razor-usin'
sex are so scarce--well, that's when half portions like this T. Forsythe
Hurd get by as full orders.
Besides, Mrs. Robert had meant well. Her idea was to make the Captain's
48-hour shore leave as gay and lively as possible. She'd had a hard time
roundin' up any of his friends, too. Hence Forsythe. One of these slim,
fine-haired, well manicured parlor Pomeranians, Forsythe is--the kind
who raves over the sandwiches and whispers perfectly killin' things to
the ladies as he flits about at afternoon teas.
We were up at the Ellinses', Vee and me, fillin' out at Saturday
luncheon, when Mr. Robert drifts in, about an hour behind schedule. You
know, he's commandin' one of these coast patrol boats. Some of 'em are
converted steam yachts, some are sea-goin' tugs, and then again some
are just old menhaden fish-boats painted gray with a few three-inch guns
stuck around on 'em casual. And this last is the sort of craft Mr.
Robert had wished on him.
Seems there'd been some weather off the Hook for the last few days, and,
with a fresh U-boat scare on, him and his reformed glue barge had been
havin' anything but a merry time. I don't know how the old fish-boat
stood it, but Mr. Robert showed that he'd been on more or less active
service. He had a three days' growth of stubble on his face, his navy
uniform was wrinkled and brine-stained, and the knuckles on one hand
were all barked up.
"Why, Robert!" says young Mrs. Ellins, as she wriggles out of the clinch
and gives him the once-over. "You're a sight."
"Sorry, my dear," says Mr. Robert; "but the beauty parlor on the
_Narcissus_ wasn't working when I left. But if you can give me half an
hour to----"
He got it. And when he shows up again in dry togs and with his face
mowed he's almost fit to mingle with the guests. It was about then that
T. Forsythe was pullin' his star act at the salad bowl. Course, when you
have only ordinary people around, you let the kitchen help do such
things. But when Forsythe is present he's asked to mix the salad
dressin'.
So there is Forsythe, wearin' a jade-green tie to match the color of the
salad bowl, surrounded by cruets and pepper grinders and paprika
bottles, and manipulatin' his own special olivewood spoon and fork as
dainty and graceful as if he was conductin' an orchestra.
"Oh, I say, Jevons," says he, signalin' the Ellinses' butler, "have
someone conduct a clove of garlic to the back veranda, slice it, and
gently rub it on a crust of fresh bread. Then bring me the bread. And do
you mind very much, Mrs. Ellins, if I have those Papa Gontier roses
removed? They clash with an otherwise perfect color scheme, and you've
no idea how sensitive I am to such jarring notes. Besides, their perfume
is so beastly obtrusive. At times I've been made quite ill by them.
Really."
"Take them away, Jevons," says Mr. Robert, smotherin' a sarcastic smile.
"Huh!" grumbles Mr. Robert. "What a rotter you are, Forsythe. If I could
only get you aboard the _Narcissus_ for a ten-day cruise! I'd introduce
you to perfumes, the sort you could lean up against. You know, when a
boat has carried mature fish for----"
"Please, Bob!" protests Forsythe. "We admit you're a hero, and that
you've been saving the country, but don't let's have the disgusting
details; at least, not when the salad dressing is at its most critical
stage."
Havin' said which, Forsythe proceeds to finish what was for him a hard
day's work.
Discussin' his likes and dislikes was Forsythe's strong hold, and, if
you could believe him, he had more finicky notions than a sanatorium
full of nervous wrecks. He positively couldn't bear the sight of this,
the touch of that, and the sound of the other thing. The rustle of a
newspaper made him so fidgety he could hardly sit still. The smell of
boiled cabbage made him faint. Someone had sent him a plaid necktie for
Christmas. He had ordered his man to pick it up with the fire-tongs and
throw it in the ash-can. Things like that.
All through luncheon we listened while Forsythe described the awful
agonies he'd gone through. We had to listen. You can guess what a joy it
was. And, all the time, I could watch Mr. Robert gettin' sorer and
sorer.
"Entertainin' party, eh?" I remarks on the side, as we escapes from the
dinin'-room.
"Forsythe," says Mr. Robert, "is one of those persons you're always
wanting to kick and never do. I could generally avoid him at the club,
but here----"
Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. Then he adds:
"I say, Torchy, you have clever ideas now and then."
"Who, me?" says I. "Someone's been kiddin' you."
"Perhaps," says he; "but if anything should occur to you that might help
toward putting Forsythe in a position where real work and genuine
discomfort couldn't be dodged--well, I should be deeply grateful."
"What a cruel thought!" says I. "Still, if a miracle like that could be
pulled, it would be entertainin' to watch. Eh?"
"Especially if it had to do with handling cold, slippery things,"
chuckles Mr. Robert, "like iced eels or pickles."
Then we both grins. I was tryin' to picture Forsythe servin' a sentence
as helper in a fish market or assistant stirrer in a soap fact'ry. Not
that anything like that could happen through me. Who was I to interfere
with a brilliant drawin'-room performer like him? Honest, with Forsythe
scintillatin' around, I felt like a Bolsheviki of the third class. And
yet, the longer I watched him, the more I mulled over that hint Mr.
Robert had thrown out.
I was still wonderin' if I was all hollow above the eyes, when our
placid afternoon gatherin' is busted complete by a big cream-colored
limousine rollin' through the porte-cochère and a new arrival breezin'
in. From the way Jevons swells his chest out as he helps her shed the
mink-lined motor coat, I guessed she must be somebody important.
"Why, it's Miss Gorman!" whispers Vee.
"Not _the_ Miss Gorman--Miss Jane?" I says.
Vee nods, and I stretches my neck out another kink. Who wouldn't? Not
just because she's a society head-liner, or the richest old maid in the
country, but because she's such a wonder at gettin' things done. You
know, I expect--Red Cross work, suffrage campaignin', Polish relief.
Say, I'll bet if she could be turned loose in Mexico or Russia for a
couple of months, she'd have things runnin' as smooth as a directors'
meetin' of the Standard Oil.
Look at the things she's put through, since the war started, just by
crashin' right in and stayin' on the job. They say she keeps four
secretaries with their suitcases packed, ready to jump into their
travelin' clothes and slide down the pole when she pushes the buzzer
button.
And now she's makin' straight for Mr. Robert.
"What luck!" says she. "I wasn't at all sure of finding you. How much
leave have you? Only until Monday morning? Oh, you overworked naval
officers! But you must find some men for me, Robert; two, at least. I
need them at once."
"Might I ask, Miss Jane," says he, "if any particular qualifications
are----"
"What I would like," breaks in Miss Gorman, "would be two active,
intelligent young men with some initiative and executive ability. You
see, I am giving a going away dinner for some soldiers of the Rainbow
Division who are about to be sent to the transports. It's an official
secret, of course. No one is supposed to know that they are going to
sail soon, but everyone does know. None of their friends or relatives
are to be allowed to be there to wish them God-speed or anything like
that, and they need cheering up just now. So I arrange one of these
dinners when I can. My plans for this one, however, have been terribly
rushed."
"I see," says Mr. Robert. "And it's perfectly bully of you, Miss Jane.
Splendid! I suppose there'll be a hundred or so."
"Six eighty," says she, never battin' an eye. "We are not including the
officers--only privates. And we don't want one of them to lift a finger
for it. They've had enough fatigue duty. This time they're to be
guests--honored guests. I have permission from the Brigadier in command.
We are to have one of the mess halls for a whole day. The chef and
waiters have been engaged, too. And an orchestra. But there'll be so
many to manage--the telling of who to go where, and seeing that the
entertainers don't get lost, and that the little dinner favors are put
around, and all those details. So I must have help."
I could see Mr. Robert rollin' his eyes around for me, so I steps up.
Just from hearin' her talk a couple of minutes I'd caught the fever.
That's a way she has, I understand. So the next thing I knew I'd been
patted on the shoulder and taken on as a volunteer.
"Precisely the sort of assistant I was hoping for," says Miss Gorman. "I
can tell by his hair. I know just what I shall ask him to do. But
there'll be so much more; decorating the tables, and----"
Here I nudges Mr. Robert. "How about Forsythe?" I suggests.
"Eh?" says he. "Why--why---- By Jove, though! Why not? Oh, I say,
Forsythe! Just a moment."
Maybe the same thought struck him as had come to me, which is that
helpin' Miss Jane give a blowout to near seven hundred soldiers wouldn't
be any rest-cure stunt. She's rated at about ninety horse-power herself,
when she's speeded up, and anybody that happens to be on her staff has
got to keep movin' in high. They'd have to be ready to tackle anything
that turned up, too.
But, to hear Mr. Robert explain it to Forsythe, you'd think it was just
that his fame as an arranger of floral center-pieces had spread until
Miss Gorman has decided nobody else would do.
"Although, heaven knows, I never suspected you could be really useful,
Forsythe," says Mr. Robert. "But if Miss Jane thinks you'd be a
help----"
"Oh, I am sure Mr. Hurd would be the very one," puts in Miss Gorman.
"At last!" says Forsythe, strikin' a pose. "My virtues are about to be
discovered. I shall be delighted to assist you, Miss Gorman, in any
way."
"Tut, tut, Forsythe!" says Mr. Robert. "Don't be too reckless. Miss Jane
might take you at your word."
"Go on. Slander me," says Forsythe. "Say that, when enlisted in a noble
cause, I am a miserable shirker."
"Indeed, I shouldn't believe a word of it, even if I had time to listen
to him," declares Miss Jane. "And I must be at the camp within an hour.
I shall need one of you young men now. Let me see. Suppose I take this
one--Torchy, isn't it? Get your coat. I'll not promise to have you back
for dinner, but I'll try. Thank you so much, Robert."
And then it was a case of goin' on from there. Whew! I've sort of had
the notion now and then, when I've been operatin' with Old Hickory
Ellins at the Corrugated Trust on busy days, that I was some rapid
private sec. But say, havin' followed Miss Jane Gorman through them
dinner preliminaries, I know better.
While that French chauffeur of hers is rollin' us down Long Island at
from forty to fifty miles per hour, she has her note-book out and is
pumpin' me full of things I'm expected to remember--what train the
chef's gang is comin' on, how the supplies are to be carted over, who to
see about knockin' up a stage for the cabaret talent, and where the
buntin' has been ordered. I borrows a pad and pencil, and wishes I knew
shorthand.
By the time we lands at the camp, though, I have a fair idea of the job
she's tackled; and while she's havin' an interview with the C. O. I
starts explorin' the scene of the banquet. First off I finds that the
mess-hall seats less than five hundred, the way they got the tables
fixed; that there's no room for a stage without breakin' through one end
and tackin' it on; and that the camp cooks will have the range ovens
full of bread and the tops covered with oatmeal in double boilers as
usual. Outside of that and a few other things, the arrangements was
lovely.
Miss Jane ain't a bit disturbed when I makes my report.
"There!" says she. "Didn't I say you were just the assistant I needed?
Now, please tell all those things to the Brigadier. He will know exactly
what to do. Then you'd best be out here early Monday morning to see that
they're done properly. And I think, Torchy, I shall make you my general
manager for this occasion. Yes, I'll do it. Everyone will report first
to you, and you will tell them exactly where to go and what to do."
"You--you mean," says I, gaspin' a bit, "all the hired help?"
"And the volunteers too," says Miss Jane. "Everyone."
Maybe I grinned. I didn't know just how it was goin' to work out, but I
could feel something comin'. Forsythe was goin' to get his. He stood to
get it good, too. Not all on account of what I owed Mr. Robert for the
friendly turns he'd done me. Some of it would be on my own hook, to pay
up for the yawny half hours I'd had to sit through listenin' while
Forsythe discoursed about himself. You should have seen the satisfied
look on Mr. Robert's face when I hinted how Forsythe might be in line
for new sensations.
"If I could only be there to watch!" says he. "You must tell me all
about it afterwards. They'll enjoy hearing of it at the club."
But, at that, Forsythe wasn't the one to walk right into trouble. He's a
shifty party, and he ain't been duckin' work all these years without
gettin' expert at it. Accordin' to schedule he was to show up at the
camp about nine-thirty Monday morning; but it's nearer noon when he
rolls up in his car. And I don't hesitate a bit about givin' him the
call.
"You know it's this week, not next," says I, "that this dinner is comin'
off. And there's four bolts of buntin' waitin' to be hung up."
"Quite so," says Forsythe. "We must get to work right away."
I had to chase down to the station again then, to see that the chef's
outfit was bein' loaded on the trucks; but I was cheered up by the
thought of Forsythe balanced on top of a tall step-ladder with his mouth
full of tacks and his collar gettin' wilty.
It's near an hour before I gets back, though. Do I find Forsythe in his
shirt-sleeves climbin' around on the rafters? I do not. He's sittin'
comfortable in a camp-chair on a fur motor robe, smokin' a cigarette
calm, and surrounded by half a dozen classy young ladies that he's
rounded up by 'phone from the nearest country club. The girls and three
or four chauffeurs are doin' the work, while Forsythe is doin' the heavy
directin'.
He'd sketched out his decoratin' scheme on the back of an envelop, and
now he was tellin' 'em how to carry it out. The worst of it is, too,
that he's gettin' some stunnin' effects and is bein' congratulated
enthusiastic by the girls.
It's the same way with fixin' up the tables with ferns and flowers.
Forsythe plans it out with a pencil, and his crew do the hustlin'
around.
Course, I had to let it ride. Besides, there was a dozen other things
for me to look after. But I'm good at a waitin' game. I kept my eye on
Forsythe, to see that he didn't slip away. He was still there at
two-thirty, havin' organized a picnic luncheon with the young ladies,
when Miss Jane blew in. And blamed if she don't fall for Forsythe's
stuff, too.
"Why, you've done wonders, Mr. Hurd," says she. "What a versatile genius
you are?"
"Oh, that!" says he, wavin' a sandwich careless. "But it's an
inspiration to be doing anything at all for you, Miss Gorman."
And here he hasn't so much as shed his overcoat.
It must have been half an hour later when Sig. Zaretti, the head chef,
comes huntin' me out with a desperate look in his eyes. I was consultin'
Miss Jane about borrowin' a piano from the Y. M. C. A. tent, but he
kicks right in.
"Ah, I am distract," says he, puffin' out his cheeks. "Eet--eet ees too
mooch!"
"Go on," says I. "Shoot the tragedy. What's too much?"
"That Pedro and that Salvatore," says he. "They have become lost, the
worthless ones. They disappear on me. And in three hours I am to serve,
in this crude place, a dinner of six courses to seven hundred men. They
abandon me at such a time, with so much to be done."
"Well, that's up to you," says I. "Can't some of your crowd double in
brass? What about workin' in some of your waiters?"
"But they are all employed," says Zaretti. "Besides, the union does not
permit. If you could assist me with two men, even one. I implore."
"There ain't a cook in sight," says I. "Sorry, but----"
"Eet ees not for cook," he protests. "No; only to help make the peel
from those so many potatoes. One who could make the peel. Please!"
"Oh!" says I. "Peelin' potatoes! Why, 'most anybody could help out at
that, I guess. I would myself if----"
"No," breaks in Miss Jane. "You cannot be spared. And I'm sure I don't
know who could."
"Unless," I puts in, "Mr. Hurd is all through with his decoratin'."
"Why, to be sure," says she. "Just tell him, will you?"
"Suppose I send him over to you, Miss Gorman," says I, "while I hustle
along that piano?"
She nods, and I lose no time trailin' down Forsythe.
"Emergency call for you from Miss Jane," says I, edgin' in among his
admirers and tappin' him on the shoulder. "She's waitin' over by
headquarters."
"Oh, certainly," says Forsythe, startin' off brisk.
"And say," I calls after him, "I hope it won't be anything that'll make
you faint."
"Please don't worry about me," says he.
Well, I tried not to. In fact, I tried so hard that some folks might
have thought I'd heard good news from home. But I'd had a peek or two
into the camp kitchen since Zaretti's food construction squad had moved
in, and, believe me, it was no place for an artistic temperament,
subject to creeps up the back. There was about a ton of cold-storage
turkeys bein' unpacked, bushels of onions goin' through the shuckin'
process, buckets of soup stock standin' around, and half a dozen
murderous-lookin' assistant chefs was sharpenin' long knives and
jabberin' excited in four languages.
Oh, yes; Forsythe was goin' to need all the inspiration he'd collected,
if he lasted through.
I kind of wanted to stick around and cheer him up with friendly words
while he was fishin' potatoes out of the cold water and learnin' to use
a peelin'-knife, but my job wouldn't let me. After I'd seen the piano
landed on the new stage, there were chairs to be placed for the
orchestra, and then other things. So it was some little time before I
got around to the kitchen wing again, pretendin' to be lookin' for
Zaretti. But nowhere in that steamin', hustlin', garlic-smellin' bunch
could I see Forsythe.
"Hey, chef!" I sings out. "Where's that expert potato-peeler I sent
you?"
"Ah!" says he, rubbin' his hands enthusiastic. "The signor with the
yellow gloves? In the tent there you will find heem."
So I steps over to the door of a sort of canvas annex and peers in. And
say, it was a rude shock. Forsythe is there, all right. He's snuggled up
cozy next to an oil heater, holdin' a watch in one hand and a cigarette
in the other, while around him is grouped his faithful fluff
body-guard, each with a pan in her lap and the potato-peelin's comin'
off rapid. Forsythe? Oh, he seems to be speedin' 'em up and keepin'
tally.
I'd just let out my second gasp when I feels somebody at my elbow, and
glances round to find it's Miss Jane.
"Look!" says I, indicatin' Forsythe and his busy bees.
"What a picture!" says Miss Jane.
"Yes," says I, "illustratin' the manly art of lettin' the women do it."
Miss Jane laughs easy.
"It has been that way for ages," says she. "Mr. Hurd is only running
true to type. But see! The potatoes are nearly all peeled and our dinner
is going to be served on time. What splendid assistants you've both
been!"
At that, though, if there'd been a medal to be passed out, I guess it
would have been pinned on Forsythe.