On With Torchy

by Sewell Ford

  CHAPTER XII

  THE GLAD HAIL FOR TORCHY

  I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omittedis lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination.

  Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wishit was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed.That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat withthe only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to beintroduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls.But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I foundthat out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how,but she is.

  All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does thesummer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and thenthe first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now andthen,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee,sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have thepapers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's socomfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hotevening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in theCasino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss VeronaHemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--mehere behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin'fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?

  And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served withlamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It'snice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--justa picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame ifthere'd been one handy.

  As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazeslongin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low,wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof andyellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the wavesfrothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is thename of the place printed underneath.

  "Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's toobad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? Iwonder what she'd say if----"

  B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started onsome rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when offgoes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chairbehind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants atub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em downsnappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.

  "Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.

  "Said pins, dintcher?" says I.

  "Why--er--yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."

  "Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.

  "Oh--er--Torchy," he adds.

  "Well?" says I over my shoulder.

  "Might one inquire," says he, "is it distress, or only disposition?"

  "It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway," says I.

  "Ah!" says he, sort of reflective. "Feeling the need of a halfholiday, are you?"

  "Humph!" says I. "What's the good of an afternoon off?"

  He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin'tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on anotherjaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I washim. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else whocouldn't, the way he was doin' at me!

  "Mr. Robert," says I, spunkin' up sudden, "what's the matter with metakin' a vacation?"

  "Why," says he, "I--I presume it might be arranged. When would youwish to go?"

  "When?" says I. "Why, now--tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stickout the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick ofthe shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!"

  It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses Iexpect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors. But I guessMr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps hiseyebrows humorous and chuckles.

  "That's rather abrupt, isn't it?" says he. "But perhaps--er--justwhere is she now, Torchy?"

  I grins back sheepish. "Coast of Maine," says I.

  "Well, well!" says he. "Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, atleast. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a goodexpress, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!"

  "Mr. Robert," says I, choky, "you--you're I-double-It with me. Thanks."

  "My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach,"says he as we swaps grips.

  Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out thesymptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for Idon't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet.I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, andcalls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.

  "Nothing doing," says the guy. "Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, orsix varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Anychoice?"

  "Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!" says I. "You got to have 'em. It saysso on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.

  "Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor,isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the bestI can do for you--drawing rooms all gone."

  "Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance anupper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."

  Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I careif the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like aTurkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suitand three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kalebuttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed awaycareful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' alongon that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

  "What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroomnext mornin' about six-thirty A. M.

  "Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."

  "Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tacklesa plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m!They sure can build pie up there!

  It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that nextjoint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and waslookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name.Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from?Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert aboutbuildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affairon his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And,say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State afterthat. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled thatwith myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin'every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coopon the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blueflannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.

  "Hello, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"

  He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, fromthe reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.

  "Can't you read?" says he.

  "Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't seeit from in here."

  "Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.

  "Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain'tit? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell youwho I am."

  "Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only theSecretary of the Navy?"

  "You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of BoothbayHarbor."

  "Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.

  "Happen to know Ira?" says I.

  "Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"

  "Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do Ilook like I--bu
t I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: notBrooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight NewYork, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr.Higgins."

  "Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."

  Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we wasjoshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin'out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got somescenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' butscenery,--rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, andthen a few more rocks.

  "How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?" says I.

  "Government files a new edge on it," says he. "They keep a gang thatdoes nothin' else."

  "Think of that!" says I. "I don't see any lobsters floatin' around,though."

  "Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. Youwant to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel inflocks."

  "Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why thepainted posts stickin' up out of the water?"

  "Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."

  Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when thesecond mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, andhow the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price tothree dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. Asit was, I guess we split about even.

  Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands andchannels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand.As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just onthe edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at thehotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

  He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiledshirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  "Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place onCunner Point, about three miles up."

  "Can I get a trolley?" says I.

  "Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'nBath."

  "Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

  Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, thesummer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'nCroesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive partiesthat don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is overa private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch totake you up.

  "Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meetcompany. Now, if they was expectin' you----"

  "That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's ayoung lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and meain't so chummy as we might be."

  "Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

  "Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,"says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

  Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," sayshe. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too."

  "Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel witha bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"

  "Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' theplace over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott thisafternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

  That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Showme Eb," says I.

  He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannelshirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tubof a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line ofbusiness, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin'up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em insidewith fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters intothe pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any senseof smell.

  "Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always liketo dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira,includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

  It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination ofgasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_!Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motionone of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans forbreakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles somepressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. Moreperfume comin' my way!

  "Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.

  "Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"

  "You couldn't tell the difference," says I.

  "We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, andyou git a premium."

  "You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."

  "Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holdsout the plug invitin'.

  "Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother Iwouldn't."

  "Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps dowhen they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----"

  "Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A monthof this? Ah, say!"

  After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine,run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up anaffair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openworkhen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of thegooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back.By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel andstart the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than Ilooked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly oldyap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

  So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eblooks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

  Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only notcolored quite so vivid.

  "Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.

  They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on theveranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spotsAunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along withher waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, andlookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also ayoung gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin'a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee'slaugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too,"nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it,though.

  And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oilybrine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down apiece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threwon the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday.Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any privatesignals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes andsquats lower in the boat.

  "Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?" says Eb, straightenin' upand wipin' his hands on his corduroys.

  "Who's the party in the tennis outfit?" says I.

  "Him?" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. "Must be young Hollister, that ownsthe mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, fivemore traps to haul, and we're through, Son."

  "Let's go haul 'em, then," says I, grabbin' the flywheel.

  Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footedup to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to thefeathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level withmy eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That wasgood dope too.

  I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky byhalf. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for.

&nbs
p; My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And,say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid!Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,--young chaps inwhite ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, oldguys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressedsporty and comf'table--and more square feet of sunburn than would coverUnion Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'.

  As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wandersdown there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and thebig sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boatsdodgin' around in the choppy water. There's a crisp, salty breezethat's makin' the flags snap, the sun's shinin' bright, and take italtogether it's some brilliant scene. Only I'm on the outside peekin'in.

  "What's the use?" thinks I. "I'm off my beat up here."

  Fin'lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches wascomin' in thick. I must have been there near an hour, swappin' never aword with anybody, and gettin' lonesomer by the minute, when in fromthe harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin' atthe float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump. At the wheel I getssight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on hisface. Also he's wearin' a striped blazer.

  "Young Hollister, maybe," thinks I. "And he's in for a smash."

  Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it's a little late,for he's got a lot of headway. Honest, I didn't think it out. And Iwas achin' to butt into something. I jumped quick, grabbed the bow asit came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside thefenders without even scratchin' the varnish.

  "Thanks, old chap," says he. "Saved me a bad bump there. I--I'mgreatly obliged."

  "You're welcome," says I. "You was steamin' in a little strong."

  "I haven't handled the Vixen much myself," says he. "You see, ourboatman's laid up,--sprained ankle,--and I had to come down from theRocks for some gasolene."

  "Oh! Roarin' Rocks?" says I.

  "Yes," says he. "Where's that fool float tender?"

  "Just gone into the clubhouse," says I. "Maybe I could keep her frombumpin' while you're gone."

  "By Jove! would you?" says he, handin' over a boathook.

  Even then I wasn't layin' any scheme. I helps when they puts the gasin, and makes myself generally useful. Also I'm polite and respectful,which seems to make a hit with him.

  "Deuced bother," says he, "not having any man. I had a picnic plannedfor today too."

  "That so?" says I. "Well, I'm no marine engineer, but I'm just killin'time around here, and if I could help any way----"

  "Oh, I say, but that's jolly of you," says he, "I wonder if you would,for a day or so? My name's Hollister, Payne Hollister."

  He wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes meinto it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a littleround canvas hat with "Vixen" on the front, and trots back uptown tobuy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quickchange for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about theyachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions ofa classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.