TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S
Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have let
on that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby.
Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and I
havin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'd
tackled the proposition real serious.
You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' him
around and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to put
over. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called him
anything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee she
sticks to Baby. Uh-huh--just plain Baby. But the way she says it,
breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right to
me.
And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' so
he'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in that
fashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to.
As for the different things I called him--well, he didn't mind them,
either. No matter what it was,--Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels,--he'd
generally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy with
his bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands.
Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while,
just can't hold in any longer.
"Isn't it high time," says she, "that you addressed the child properly
by his right name?"
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"
"You don't mean to say," she goes on, "that you have not yet decided on
his baptismal name?"
"I didn't know he was a Baptist," says I feeble.
"We hadn't quite settled what to call him," says Vee.
"Besides," I adds, "I don't see the use bein' in a rush about it. Maybe
were're savin' that up."
"Saving!" says Auntie. "For what reason?"
"Oh, general conservation," says I. "Got the habit. We've had heatless
Mondays and wheatless Wednesdays and fryless Fridays and sunless
Sundays, so why not nameless babies?"
Auntie sniffs and goes off with her nose in the air, as she always does
whenever I spring any of my punk persiflage on her.
But then Vee takes it up, and says Auntie is right and that we really
ought to decide on a name and begin using it.
"Oh, very well," says I. "I'll be thinking one up."
Seemed simple enough. Course, I'd never named any babies before, but I
had an idea I could dig out half a dozen good, serviceable monickers
between then and dinner-time.
Somehow, though, I couldn't seem to hit on anything that I was willing
to wish on to the youngster offhand. When I got right up against the
problem, it seemed kind of serious.
Why, here was something he'd have to live with all his life; us, too.
We'd have to say it over maybe a hundred times a day. And if he grew up
and amounted to anything, as we was sure he would, it would mean that
this front name of his that I had to pick out might be displayed more or
less prominent. It would be on his office door, on his letterheads, on
his cards. He'd sign it to checks.
Maybe it would be printed in the newspapers, used in headlines, or
painted on campaign banners. Might be displayed on billboards. Who could
tell?
And the deeper I got into the thing the more I wabbled about from one
name to another, until I wondered how people had the nerve to give their
children some of the tags you hear--Percy, Isadore, Lulu, Reginald, and
so on. And do it so casual, too. Why, I knew of a couple who named their
three girls after parlor-cars; and a gink in Brooklyn who called one of
his boys Prospect, after the park. Think of loadin' a helpless youngster
with anything freaky like that!
Besides, how were you going to know that even the best name you could
pick wouldn't turn out to be a misfit? About the only Percy I ever knew
in real life was a great two-fisted husk who was foreman of a
stereotypin' room; and here in the Corrugated Buildin', if you'll come
in some night after five, I can show you a wide built scrub lady, with
hair redder'n mine and a voice like a huckster--her front name is
Violet. Yet I expect, when them two was babies, both those names sounded
kind of cute. I could see where it would be easy enough for me to make
a mistake that it would take a court order to straighten out.
So, when Vee asks if I've made any choice yet I had to admit that I'm
worse muddled up on the subject than when I started in. All I can do is
hand over a list I've copied down on the back of an envelop with every
one of 'em checked off as no good.
"Let's see," says Vee, glancin' 'em over curious. "Lester. Why, I'm sure
that is rather a nice name for a boy."
"Yes," says I; "but after I put it down I remembered a Lester I knew
once. He was a simp that wore pink neckties and used to write
love-letters to Mary Pickford."
"What about Earl?" she asks.
"Too flossy," says I. "Sounds like you was tryin' to let on he belonged
to the aristocracy."
"Well, Donald, then," says she. "That's a good, sensible name."
"But we ain't Scotch," I objects.
"What's the matter with Philip?" says Vee.
"I can never remember whether it has one _l_ and two _p_'s or the other
way round."
"But you haven't considered any of the common ones," goes on Vee, "such
as John or William or Thomas or James or Arthur."
"Because that would mean he'd be called Bill or Tom or Art," says I.
"Besides, I kind of thought he ought to have something out of the usual
run--one you wouldn't forget as soon as you heard it."
"If I may suggest," breaks in Auntie, "the custom of giving the eldest
son the family name of his mother is rather a good one. Had you
considered Hemmingway?"
I just gasps and glances at Vee. What if she should fall for anything
like that! Think of smotherin' a baby under most of the alphabet all at
one swoop! And imagine a boy strugglin' through schooldays and vacations
with all that tied to him.
Hemmingway! Why, he'd grow up round-shouldered and knock-kneed, and most
likely turn out to be a floor-walker in the white goods department, or
the manager of a gift-shop tearoom. Hemmingway!
Just the thought of it made me dizzy; and I begun breathin' easier when
I saw Vee shake her head.
"He's such a little fellow, Auntie," says she. "Wouldn't that be--well,
rather topheavy?"
Which disposes of Auntie. She admits maybe it would. But from then on,
as the news seems to spread that we was havin' a kind of deadlock with
the namin' process, the volunteers got busy. Old Leon Battou, our
butler-cook, hinted that his choice would be Emil.
"For six generations," says he, "Emil has been the name of the
first-born son in our family."
"That's stickin' to tradition," says I. "It sounds perfectly swell, too,
when you know how to pronounce it. But, you see, we're foundin' a new
dynasty."
Mr. Robert don't say so outright, but he suggests that Ellins Ballard
wouldn't be such a bad combination.
"True," he adds, "the governor and I deserve no such distinction; but
I'm sure we would both be immensely flattered. And there's no telling
how reckless we might be when it come to presenting christening cups and
that sort of thing."
"That's worth rememberin'," says I. "And I expect you wouldn't mind, in
case you had a boy to name later on, callin' him Torchy, eh!"
Mr. Robert grins. "Entry withdrawn," says he.
How this Amelia Gaston Leroy got the call to crash in on our little
family affair, though, I couldn't quite dope out. We never suspected
before that she was such an intimate friend of ours. Course, since we'd
been livin' out in the Piping Rock section we had seen more or less of
her--more, as a rule. She was built that way.
Oh, yes. Amelia was one of the kind that could bounce in among three or
four people in a thirty by forty-five living-room and make the place
seem crowded. Mr. Robert's favorite description of her was that one half
of Amelia didn't know how the other half lived. To state it plain,
Amelia was some whale of a girl. One look at her, and you did no more
guessin' as to what caused the food shortage.
I got the shock of my life, too, when they told me she was the one that
wrote so much of this mushy magazine poetry you see printed. For all the
lady poetesses I'd ever seen had been thin, shingled-chested parties
with mud-colored hair and soulful eyes.
There was nothing thin about Amelia. Her eyes might have been soulful
enough at times, but mostly I'd seen 'em fixed on a tray of sandwiches
or a plate of layer cake.
They'd had her up at the Ellinses' once or twice when they were givin'
one of their musical evenin's, and she'd spouted some of her stuff.
Her first call on us, though, was when she blew in last Sunday afternoon
and announced that she'd come to see "that dear, darling man child" of
ours. And for a girl of her size Amelia is some breeze, take it from me.
Honest, for the first ten minutes or so there I felt like our happy
little home had been hit by a young tornado.
"Where is he?" she demands. "Please take me at once into the regal
presence of his youthful majesty."
I noticed Vee sizin' her up panicky, and I knew she was thinkin' of what
might happen to them spindle-legged white chairs in the nursery.
"How nice of you to want to see him!" says Vee. "But let me have Baby
brought down here. Just a moment."
And she steers her towards a solid built davenport that we'd been
meanin' to have reupholstered anyway. Then we was treated to a line of
high-brow gush as Amelia inspects the youngster through her shell
lorgnette and tries to tell us in impromptu blank verse how wonderful he
is.
"Ah, he is one of the sun children, loved of the high gods," says she,
rollin' her eyes. "He comes to you wearing the tints of dawn and
trailing clouds of glory. You remember how Wordsworth puts it?"
As she fires this straight at me, I has to say something.
"Does he?" I asks.
"I am always impressed," she gurgles on, "by the calm serenity in the
eyes of these little ones. It is as if they----"
But just then Snoodlekins begins screwin' up his face. He's never been
mauled around by a lady poetess before, or maybe it was just because
there was so much of her. Anyway, he tears loose with a fine large howl
and the serenity stuff is all off. It takes Vee four or five minutes to
soothe him.
Meanwhile Miss Leroy gets around to statin' the real reason why we're
bein' honored.
"I understand," says she, "that you have not as yet chosen a name for
him. So I am going to help you. I adore it. I have always wanted to name
a baby, and I've never been allowed. Think of that! My brother has five
children, too; but he would not listen to any of my suggestions.
"So I am aunt to a Walter who should have been called Clifford, and a
Margaret whom I wanted to name Beryl, and so on. Even my laundress
preferred to select names for her twins from some she had seen on a
circus poster rather than let me do it for her.
"But I am sure you are rational young people, and recognize that I have
some natural talent in that direction. Names! Why, I have made a study
of them. I must, you see, in my writing. And this dear little fellow
deserves something fitting. Now let me see. Ah, I have it! He shall be
Cedric--after Cedric the Red, you know."
Accordin' to her, it was all settled. She heaves herself up off the
davenport, straightens her hat, and prepares to leave, smilin'
satisfied, like an expert who's been called in and has finished the job.
"We--we will consider Cedric," says Vee. "Thank you so much."
"Oh, not at all," says Amelia. "Of course, if I should happen to think
of anything better within the next few days I will let you know at
once." And out she floats.
Vee gazes after her and sighs.
"I suppose Cedric is rather a good name," says she, "but somehow I don't
feel like using one that a stranger has picked out for us. Do you,
Torchy?"
"You've said it," says I. "I'd sooner let her buy my neckties, or tell
me how I should have my eggs cooked for breakfast."
"And yet," says Vee, "unless we can think of something better----"
"We will," says I. "I'm goin' through them pages in the back of the big
dictionary."
In less'n half an hour there's a knock at the door, and here's a
chauffeur come with a note from Amelia. On the way home she's had
another hunch.
"After all," she writes, "Cedric seems rather too harsh, too rough-shod.
So I have decided on Lucian."
"Huh!" says I. "She's decided, has she? Say, whose tag day is this,
anyway--ours or hers?"
Vee shrugs her shoulders.
"I'm not sure that we should like calling him Lucian; it's so--so----"
"I know," says I, "so perfectly sweet. Say, can't we block Amelia off
somehow? Suppose I send back word that a rich step-uncle has promised to
leave him a ton of coal if we call the baby Ebenezer after him?"
Vee chuckles.
"Oh, no doubt she'll forget all about it by morning," says she.
Seems we'd just begun hearin' from the outside districts, though, or
else they'd been savin' up their ideas for this particular afternoon and
evenin'; for between then and nine o'clock no less'n half a dozen
different parties dropped in, every last one of 'em with a name to
register. And their contributions ranged all the way from Aaron to Xury.
There were two rooters for Woodrow and one for Pershing.
Some of the neighbors were real serious about it. They told us what a
time they'd had namin' some of their children, brought up cases where
families had been busted up over such discussions, and showed us where
their choice couldn't be beat. One merry bunch from the Country Club
thought they was pullin' something mighty humorous when they stopped in
to tell us how they'd held a votin' contest on the subject, and that the
winnin' combination was, Paul Roger.
"After something you read on a cork, eh?" says I. "Much obliged. And I
hope nobody strained his intellect."
"The idea!" says Vee, after they've rolled off. "Voting on such a thing
at a club! Just as if Baby was a battleship, or a--a new moving-picture
place. I think that's perfectly horrid of them."
"It was fresh, all right," says I. "But I expect we got to stand for
such guff until we can give out that we've found a name that suits us.
Lemme tackle that list again. Now, how would Russell do? Russell
Ballard? No; too many _l_'s and _r_'s. Here's Chester. And I expect the
boys would call him Chesty. Then there's Clyde. But there's steamship
line by that name. What about Stanley? Oh, yes; he was an explorer."
I admit I was gettin' desperate about then. I was flounderin' around in
a whole ocean of names, long ones and short ones, fancy and plain, yet I
couldn't quite make up my mind. I'd mussed my hair, shed my collar, and
scribbled over sheets and sheets of paper, without gettin' anywhere at
all. And when I gave up and turned in about eleven-thirty, my head was
so muddled I wouldn't have had the nerve to have named a pet kitten.
I must have just dozed off to sleep when I hears this bell ringin'
somewhere. I couldn't quite make out whether it was a fire alarm, or the
_z_'s in the back of the dictionary goin' off, when Vee calls out that
it's the 'phone.
I tumbles out and paws around for the extension.
"Wha-what?" says I. "What the blazes! Ye-uh. This is me. Wha-wha's
matter?"
And then comes this gurgly voice at the other end of the wire. It's our
old friend Amelia.
"Do you know," says she, "I have just thought of the loveliest name for
your dear baby."
"Oh, have you?" says I, sort of crisp.
"Yes," says she, "and I simply couldn't wait until morning to tell you.
Now listen--it's Ethelbert."
"Ethel-Bert!" says I, gaspy. "Say, you know he's no mixed foursome."
"No, no," says she. Ethelbert--one name, after the old Saxon king.
Ethelbert Ballard. "Isn't that just perfect? And I am so glad it came to
me."
I couldn't agree with her real enthusiastic, so it's lucky she hung up
just as she did.
"Huh!" I remarks to Vee. "Why not Maryjim or Daisybill? Say, I think our
friend Amelia must have gone off her hinge."
But Vee only yawns and advises me to go to sleep and forget it. Well, I
tried. You know how it is, though, when you've been jolted out of the
feathers just as you're halfway through the first reel of the slumber
stuff. I couldn't get back, to save me.
I counted sheep jumpin' over a wall, I tried lookin' down a railroad
track until I could seen the rails meet, and I spelled Constantinople
backwards. Nothing doing in the Morpheus act.
I was wider awake then than a new taxi driver makin' his first trip up
Broadway. I could think of swell names for seashore cottages, for new
surburban additions, and for other people's babies. I invented an
explosive pretzel that would win the war. I thought of bills I ought to
pay next week sure, and of what I meant to tell the laundryman if he
kept on making hash of my pet shirts.
Then I got to wonderin' about this old-maid poetess. Was she through for
the night, or did she work double shifts? If she wasn't any nearer sleep
than I was she might think up half a dozen substitutes for Ethelbert
before mornin'. Would she insist on springin' each one on me as they hit
her?
Maybe she was gettin' ready to call me again now. Should I pretend not
to hear and let her ring, or would it be better to answer and let on
that this was Police Headquarters?
Honest, I got so fidgety waitin' for that buzzer to go off that I could
almost hear the night operator pluggin' in on our wire.
And then a thought struck me that wouldn't let go. So, slippin' out easy
and throwin' on a bath-robe, I sneaked downstairs to the back hall
'phone, turned on the light, and hunted up Miss Leroy's number in the
book.
"Give her a good strong ring, please," says I to Exchange, "and keep it
up until you rouse somebody."
"Leave it to me," says the operator. And in a minute or so I gets this
throaty "Hello!"
"Miss Leroy?" says I.
"Yes," says she. "Who is calling?"
"Ballard," says I. "I'm the fond parent of the nameless baby. And say,
do you still stick to Ethelbert?"
"Why," says she, "I--er----"
"I just wanted to tell you," I goes on, "that this guessin' contest
closes at 3 A.M., and if you want to make any more entries you got only
forty minutes to get 'em in. Nighty-night."
And I rings off just as she begins sputterin' indignant.
That seems to help a lot, and inside of five minutes I'm snoozin'
peaceful.
It was next mornin' at breakfast that Vee observes offhand, as though
the subject hadn't been mentioned before:
"About naming the baby, now."
"Ye-e-es?" says I, smotherin' a groan.
"Why couldn't we call him after you?" she asks.
"Not--not Richard Junior?" says I.
"Well, after both of us, then," says she. "Richard Hemmingway. It--it is
what I've wanted to name him all along."
"You have?" says I. "Well, for the love of----"
"You didn't ask me, that's why," says she.
"Why--why, so I didn't," says I. "And say, Vee, I don't know who's got a
better right. As for my part of the name, I've used it so little it's
almost as good as new. Richard Hemmingway Ballard it shall be."
"Oh, I'm so glad," says she. "Of course, I did want you to be the one to
pick it out; but if you're satisfied with----"
"Satisfied!" says I. "Why, I'm tickled to pieces. And here you had that
up your sleeve all the while!"
Vee smiles and nods.
"We must have the christening very soon," says she, "so everyone will
know."
"You bet!" says I. "And I've a good notion to put it on the train
bulletin down at the station, too. First off, though, we'd better tell
young Richard himself and see how he likes it. I expect, though, unless
his next crop of hair comes out a different tint from this one, that
he'll have to answer to 'Young Torchy' for a good many years."
"Oh, yes," says Vee; "but I'm sure he won't mind that in the least."
"Good girl!" says I, movin' round where I can express my feelin's
better.
"Don't!" says Vee. "You'll spill the coffee."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
SEWELL FORD'S STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,
sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.
SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human
nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for
"side-stepping with Shorty."
SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to
the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"
and gives joy to all concerned.
SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for
physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at
swell yachting parties.
TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.
A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the
youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his
experiences.
TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the
previous book.
ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but
that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,
which brings about many hilariously funny situations.
TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for
the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious
American slang.
WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.
Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,
in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his
friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place
an engagement ring on Vee's finger.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality
of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's
experiences.
SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.
Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a
quest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealth
and service--and works out a creditable salvation.
THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.
The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be
swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied
interests, and has her own romance.
THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.
How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted
herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.
THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.
Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these,
there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most
appealing characters.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.
No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young
people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the
time when the reader was Seventeen.
PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.
This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,
tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a
finished, exquisite work.
PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.
Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases
of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness
that have ever been written.
THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.
A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.
THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another
to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising
suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
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-----------------------------------------------------------------------
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
MAVERICKS.
A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations
are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One
of the sweetest love stories ever told.
A TEXAS RANGER.
How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into
the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of
thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed
through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.
WYOMING.
In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the
breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country. The political
contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story
great strength and charm.
BUCKY O'CONNOR.
Every chapter teems with "wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with
the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing
fascination of style and plot.
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter
feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual
woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly
characteristic of the great free West.
BRAND BLOTTERS.
A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of
the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love
interest running through its 320 pages.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK