A LOW TACKLE BY TORCHY
What I like about livin' out in the forty-minute-if-you're-lucky sector
is that, once you get here, it's so nice and quiet. You don't have to
worry, when you turn in at night, about manhole covers bein' blown
through your front windows, or whether the basement floor will drop into
the subway, or if some gun gang is going to use your street for a
shootin' gallery. All you do is douse the lights and feel sure nothin's
going to happen until breakfast.
We were talkin' something along this line the other evenin', Vee and me,
sayin' how restful and soothin' these spring nights in the country
was--you know, sort of handin' it to ourselves. And it couldn't have
been more'n two hours later that I'm routed rude out of the downy by the
'phone bell. It's buzzin' away frantic. I scrambles out and fits the
receiver to my ear just in time to get the full benefit of the last half
of a long ring.
"Ah, take your thumb off," I sings out to the night operator. "Who you
think you're callin'--the fire house or some doctor?"
"Here's your party," I hears her remark cheerful, and then this other
voice comes in.
Well, it's Norton Plummer, that fussy little lawyer neighbor of ours who
lives about half a mile the other side of the railroad. Since he's been
made chairman of the local Council of Defense and put me on as head of
one of his committees, he's rung me up frequent, generally at
dinner-time, to ask if I have anything to report. Seems to think, just
because I'm a reserve lieutenant on special detail, that I ought to be
discoverin' spies and diggin' out plots every few minutes.
"Yes, yes," says I. "This is me. What then?"
"Did you read about that German naval officer who escaped from an
internment camp last week?" he asks.
"But that was 'way down in North Carolina or somewhere, wasn't it?" says
I.
"Perhaps," says Plummer. "But he isn't there now. He's here."
"Eh?" says I. "Where?"
"Prowling around my house," says Plummer. "That is, he was a few moments
ago. My chauffeur saw him. So did I. He's on his way down towards the
trolley line now."
"Why didn't you nab him?" I asks.
"Me?" says Plummer. "Why, he's a huge fellow, and no doubt a desperate
man. I presume he was after me: I don't know."
"But how'd you come to spot him as a Hun officer?" says I.
"By the description I read," says he. "It fits perfectly. There's no
telling what he's up to around here. And listen: I have telephoned to
the Secret Service headquarters in town for them to send some men out in
a machine. But they'll be nearly an hour on the road, at best.
Meanwhile, what we must do is to prevent him from catching that last
trolley car, which goes in about twelve-fifteen. We must stop him, you
see."
"Oh, must we?" says I. "Listens to me like some he-sized job."
"That's why I called you up," says Plummer. "You know where the line
crosses the railroad? Well, he'll probably try to get on there. Hurry
down and prevent him."
"Is that all I have to do?" says I. "What's the scheme--do I trip him up
and sit on his head?"
"No, no!" says Plummer. "Don't attempt violence. He's a powerful man.
Why, my chauffeur saw him break the chain on our back gate as if it had
been nothing but twine. Just gave it a push--and snap it went. Oh, he's
strong as a bull. Ill-tempered, too."
"Huh!" says I. "And I'm to go down and---- Say, where do you come in on
this?"
"I'll be there with John just as soon as we can quiet Mrs. Plummer and
the maids," says he. "They're almost in hysterics. In the meantime,
though, if you could get there and---- Well, use strategy of some kind.
Anything to keep him from catching that car. You understand?"
"I get you," says I. "And it don't sound enticin' at all. But I'll see
what I can do. If you find me smeared all over the road, though, you'll
know I didn't pull it off. Also, I'd suggest that you make that soothin'
act of yours speedy."
Course this wakes Vee up, and she wants to know what it's all about.
"Oh, a little private panic that Norton Plummer is indulgin' in," says
I. "Nothin' to get fidgety over. I'll be back soon."
"But--but you won't be reckless, will you, Torchy?" she asks.
"Who, me?" says I. "How foolish. Why, I invented that 'Safety First'
motto, and side-steppin' trouble is the easiest thing I do. Trust me."
I expect she was some nervous, at that. But she's a good sport, Vee.
"If you're needed," says she, "of course I want you to go. But do be
careful."
I didn't need any coaxin'. Somehow, I never could get used to roamin'
around in the country after dark. Always seemed sort of spooky. Bein'
brought up in the city, I expect, where the scenery is illuminated
constant, accounts for that. So, as I slips out the front gate and down
towards the station, I keeps in the middle of the road and glances
suspicious at the tree shadows.
Not that I was takin' Plummer's Hun scare real serious. He'd had a bad
case of spy fever recent. Why, only last week he got all stirred up over
what he announced was a private wireless outfit that he'd discovered
somewhere in the outskirts of Flushing; and when they came to trail it
down it turns out to be some new wire clothes-line strung up back of a
flat buildin'.
Besides, what would an escaped German naval officer be doin' up this
way? He'd be more apt to strike for Mexico, wouldn't he? Still, long as
I'd let Plummer put me on the committee, it was up to me to answer any
calls. Might be entertainin' to see who he'd mistaken for an enemy alien
this time. And if all I was expected to do was spill a little impromptu
strategy--well, maybe I could, and then again maybe I couldn't. I'd take
a look, anyway.
It was seein' a light in Danny Shea's little cottage, back on a side
lane, that gave me my original hunch. Danny is one of the important
officials of the Long Island Railroad, if you let him tell it. He's the
flagman down where the highway and trolley line cross the tracks at
grade, and when his rheumatism ain't makin' him grouchy he's more or
less amusin' to chin with.
Danny had pestered the section boss until he'd got him to build a little
square coop for him, there by the crossin'--a place where he could crawl
in between trains, smoke his pipe, and toast himself over a sheet-iron
stove about as big as a picnic coffee-pot.
And that sentry-box effect was the pride of Danny's heart. Most of his
spare time and all the money he could bone out of the commuters he spent
in improvin' and decoratin' it. He'd cut a couple of round windows,
like port-holes, and fitted 'em with swingin' sashes. Then he'd tacked
on some flower-boxes underneath and filled 'em with geraniums.
When he wasn't waterin' his flowers or coaxin' along his little
grass-plot or addin' another shelf inside, he was paintin' the outside.
Danny's idea of a swell color scheme seemed to be to get on as many
different shades as possible. The roof was red, the sides a bright blue.
But where he spread himself was on the trim. All you had to do to get on
the right side of Danny was to lug him out a half-pound can of paint
different from any he'd applied so far. He'd use it somehow.
So the window-sashes was picked out in yellow, the side battens loomed
up prominent as black lines, and the door-panels was a pale pink. Nearly
all the commuters had been touched by Danny for something or other that
could be added to the shack. Only a week or so before, I'd got in strong
with him by contributin' a new padlock for the door--a vivid red one,
like they have on the village jail in vaudeville plays.
And it struck me now that if I had the key to that little box of Danny's
it would make a perfectly good listenin'-post for any midnight
sleuthin' I had to do. Most likely he was up dosin' himself or bathin'
his joints.
Well, he was. He didn't seem any too enthusiastic about lettin' me have
the key, though.
"I dunno," says he. "'Tis railroad property, y' understand, and I'd be
afther riskin' me job if any thin' should----"
"I know, Danny," says I. "But you tell 'em it was commandeered by the U.
S. Army, which is me; and if that don't square you I'll have Mr. Baker
come on and tell the section boss where he gets off."
"Verra well," says Danny. And in less than five minutes more I'm down
there at the crossin', all snug and cozy, peekin' out of them round
windows into No Man's Land.
For a while it was kind of excitin'; but after that it got sort of
monotonous. There was about half of an old moon in the sky, and only a
few clouds, so you could see fairly well--if there'd been anything to
see. But nothing seemed to be stirrin', up or down the road.
What a nut that Norton Plummer was, anyway, feedin' me up with his wild
tales in the middle of the night! And why didn't he show up? Finally I
got restless, and walked out where I could rubber up the trolley track.
No sign or sound of a car. Then I looks at my watch again, and figures
out it ain't due for twenty minutes or so. Next I strolls across the
railroad to look for Plummer. And, just as I'm passin' a big maple tree,
out steps this huge party with the whiskers. I nearly jumped out of my
puttees.
"Eh?" says I gaspy.
"Gotta match?" says he.
"I--I guess so," says I.
I reached as far as I could when I hands him the box, too. He's a whale
of a man, tall and bulky. And his whiskers are the bristly
kind--straw-colored, I should say. He's wearin' a double-breasted blue
coat and a sort of yachtin' cap. Uh-huh! Plummer must have been right.
If this gink wasn't a Hun naval officer, then what was he? The ayes had
it.
He produces a pipe and starts to light up. One match broke, the second
had no strikin' head on it, the third just fizzed.
"Gr-r-r-r!" says he.
Then he starts for the crossin', me trailin' along. I saw he had his eye
on Danny's sentry-box, meanin' to get in the lee of it. Even then I
didn't have any bright little idea.
"Waitin' for the trolley?" I throws out.
"What of it?" he growls.
"Oh, no offense," says I hasty. "Maybe there are others."
He just lets out another grunt, and tries one more match with his face
up against the side of the shanty. And then, all in a jump, my bean got
into gear.
"You might have better luck inside," says I, swingin' open the door
invitin'.
He don't even say thank you. He ain't one of that kind. For a second or
so I thought he wasn't goin' to take any notice; but after one more
failure he steps around, inspects the inside of the shanty, and then
squeezes himself through the door. At that, he wasn't all the way in,
but by the time he had a match goin' I'd got my nerve back.
"Ah, take the limit, Cap'n," says I.
With that I plants one foot impulsive right where he was widest, gives a
quick shove, slams the door shut behind him, and snaps the big padlock
through the hasp.
"Hey!" he sings out startled. "What the----"
"Now, don't get messy, Cap'n," says I. "You're in, ain't you? Smoke up
and be happy."
"You--you loafer!" he gurgles throaty. "What do you mean?"
"Just a playful little prank, Cap," says I. "Don't get excited. You're
perfectly safe."
Maybe he was. But some folks don't appreciate little attentions like
that. The Cap'n starts in bumpin' and thrashin' violent in there, like a
pup that's crawled into a drainpipe and got himself stuck. He hammers on
the walls with his fists, throws his weight against the door, and tries
to kick his way out.
But the section boss must have used rail spikes and reinforced the
studdin' with fishplates when he built that coop for Danny, or else the
big Hun was too tight a fit to get full play for his strength. Anyway,
all he did was make the little house rock until you'd thought Long
Island was enjoyin' a young earthquake. Meanwhile I stands by, ready to
do a sprint if he should break loose, and offers more or less cheerin'
advice.
"Easy with your elbows in there, Cap," says I. "You're assaultin'
railroad property, you know, and if you do any damage you can be pinched
for malicious mischief."
"You--you better let me out of here quick!" he roars. "I gotta get
back."
"Oh, you'll get to town all right," says I. "I'll promise you that."
"Loafer!" he snorts.
"Say, how do you know I ain't sensitive on that point?" says I. "You
might hurt my feelin's."
"Gr-r-r!" says he. "I would wring your neck."
"Such a disposition!" says I.
Oh, yes, we swapped quite a little repartee, me and the Cap'n, or
whatever he was. But, instead of his bein' soothed by it he gets more
strenuous every minute. He had that shack rockin' like a boat.
Next thing I saw was one of his big feet stickin' out under the bottom
sill. Then I remembers that the sentry-box has only a dirt floor--on
account of the stove, I expect. Course Danny has banked the outside up
with sod for five or six inches, but that ain't enough to hold it down
with a human tornado cuttin' loose inside. A minute more and another
foot appears on the other side, and the next I knew the whole shootin'
match begins to rise, wabbly but sure, until he's lifted it almost to
his knees.
Looked like the Cap'n was goin' to shed the coop over his head, as you'd
shuck a shirt, and I was edgin' away prepared to make a run for it. But
right there the elevatin' process stops, and after some violent squirms
there comes an outburst of language that would only get the delete sign
if I should give it. I could dope out what had happened. That plank seat
across one side had caught the Cap'n about where he buckles his belt,
and he couldn't budge it any further.
"Want a shoe-horn, Cap'n?" I asks. "Say, next time you try wearin' a
kiosk as a slip-on sweater you'd better train down for the act."
"Gr-r-r-r!" says he. "I--I will teach you to play your jokes on me,
young whipper-snap."
He does some more writhin', and pretty soon manages to swing open one of
the port-holes. With his face up to that, like a deep-sea diver peekin'
out o' his copper bonnet, he starts for me, kickin' over the little
stove as he gets under way, and tearin' the whole thing loose from the
foundation.
Course he's some handicapped by the hobble-skirt effect around his
knees, and the weight above his shoulders makes him a bit topheavy; but,
at that, he can get over the ground as fast as I can walk backwards.
Must have been kind of a weird sight, there in the moonlight--me bein'
pursued up the road by this shack with legs under it, the little tin
smoke-pipe wavin' jaunty about nine feet in the air, and the geraniums
in the flower-boxes noddin' jerky.
"Say, what do you think you are?" I calls out. "A wooden tank goin' over
the top?"
I was sort of wonderin' how long he could keep this up, and what would
be the finish, when from behind me I hears this spluttery line of
exclamations indicatin' rage. It's Danny, who's got anxious about
lettin' me have the use of his coop and has come down to see what's
happenin' to it. Well, he saw.
"Hey! Stop him, stop him!" he yells.
"Stop him yourself, Danny," says I.
"But he's runnin' away with me little flag-house, thief of the worruld!"
howls Danny. "It's breakin' and enterin' and carryin' away th' property
of the Long Island Railroad that he's guilty of."
"Yes; I've explained all that to him," says I.
"Go back and come'out of that, ye thievin' Dutchman!" orders Danny,
rushin' up and bangin' on the door with his fists.
"Just let me out, you Irish shrimp!" snarls the Cap'n.
"Can't be done--not yet, Danny," says I.
"But--but he's destroyin' me flowers and runnin' off with me little
house," protested Danny. "I'll have the law on him, so I will."
"Get out, Irisher, or I'll fall on you," warns the Cap'n.
And right in the midst of this debate I sees Norton Plummer and his
chauffeur hurryin' up from across the tracks. I skips back to meet 'em.
"Well," says Plummer, "have you seen anything of the escaped prisoner?"
"That's him," says I, pointin' to the wabblin' shack.
"Whaddye mean?" says Plummer, starin' puzzled.
"He's inside," says I. "You said use strategy, didn't you? Well, that's
the best I had in stock. I got him boxed, all right, but he won't stay
put. He insists on playin' the human turtle. What'll we do with him now?
Come see."
"My word!" says Plummer, as he gets a view of the Cap'n's legs and the
big whiskered face at the little window. "So there you are, eh, you
runaway Hun?"
"Bah!" says the Cap'n. "Why do you call me Hun?"
"Because I've identified you as an escaped German naval officer," says
Plummer. "Do you deny it?"
"Me?" says the Cap'n. "Bah!"
"Who do you claim to be, then?" says I. "A tourist Eskimo or an
out-of-town buyer from Patagonia?"
"I'm Nels Petersen, that's who I am," says he, "and I'm chief engineer
of a ferry-boat that's due to make her first run at five-thirty-three."
"What!" says Plummer. "Are you the Swede engineer who has been writing
love letters to---- Say, what is the name of Mrs. Plummer's maid?"
"Selma," says the Cap'n.
"By George!" says Plummer. "I believe the man's right. But see here:
what were you doing prowling around my back yard to-night! Why didn't
you go to the servants' entrance and ask the cook for Selma, if you're
as much in love with her as you've written that you are?"
"What do you know about it?" demands Petersen.
"Good Lord!" gasps Plummer. "Haven't I had to puzzle out all those
wretched scrawls of yours and read 'em to her? Such mushy letters, too!
Come, if you're the man, why didn't you call Selma out and tell her all
that to her face?"
Nothing but heavy breathing from inside the shack.
"You don't mean to say you were too bashful!" goes on Plummer. "A great
big fellow like you!"
If it hadn't been for the whiskers I believe we could have seen him
blush.
"Look here," says Plummer. "You may be what you say you are, and then
again you may not. Perhaps you just guessed at the girl's name. We can't
afford to take any chances. The only way to settle it is to send for
Selma."
"No, no!" pleads the big gink. "Please! Not like this."
"Yes, just like that," insists Plummer. "Only, if you'd rather, you can
carry your house back where it belongs and sit down. John, run home and
bring Selma here."
Well, we had our man nicely tamed now. With Selma liable to show up, he
was ready to do as he was told. Just why, we couldn't make out. Anyway,
he hobbles back to the crossin' and eases the shack down where he found
it. Also, he slumps inside on the bench and waits, durin' which
proceedin' the last trolley goes boomin' past.
Inside of ten minutes John is back with the maid. Kind of a slim,
classy-lookin' girl she is, too. And when Selma sees that big face at
the round window there's no doubt about his being the chosen one.
"Oh, Nels, Nels!" she wails out. "Vy you don'd coom by the house yet?"
"I was scart, Selma," says Nels, "for fear you'd tell me to go away."
"But--but I don'd, Nels," says Selma.
"Shall I let him out for the fade-away scene?" says I.
Plummer nods. And we had to turn our backs as they go to the fond
clinch.
Accordin' to Plummer, Selma had been waitin' for Nels to say the word
for more'n a year, and for the last two months she'd been so
absent-minded and moody that she hadn't been of much use around the
house. But him gettin' himself boxed up as an escaped Hun had sort of
broken the ice.
"There, now!" says Plummer. "You two go back to the house and talk it
over. You may have until three-fifteen to settle all details, and then
I'll have John drive Petersen down to his ferry-boat. Be sure and fix
the day, though. I don't want to go through another night like this."
"But what about me little lawn," demands Danny, "that's tore up
entirely? And who's to mend me stove-pipe and all?"
"Oh, here's something that will cover all that, Danny," says Plummer,
slippin' him a ten-spot. "And I've no doubt Petersen will contribute
something, too."
"Sure!" says Nels, fishin' in his pockets.
"Two bits!" says Danny, pickin' up the quarter scornful. "Thim Swedes
are the tightwads! And if ever I find this wan kidnappin' me little
house again----"
At which Danny breaks off and shakes his fist menacin'.
When I gets back home I tiptoes upstairs; but Vee is only dozin', and
wakes up with a jump.
"Is that you, Torchy?" says she. "Has--has anything dreadful happened?"
"Yes," says I. "I had to pull a low tackle, and Danny Shea's declared
war on Sweden."