by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER VII
ERNIE AND HIS BIG NIGHT
I'm kind of glad I was with Ernie when he had his big night. If I hadn'tbeen I never would have believed it of him. Not if he'd producedaffidavits. No! It would have been too much of a strain on theimagination.
For somehow it's hard to connect Ernie with anything like that, evenwhen I've seen what I have. You could almost tell that, just by hisname--Ernest Sudders. And when I add that he's assistant auditor in theCorrugated offices you ought to have the picture complete. You know whatassistant auditors are like.
Ernie ran true to type. And then some. I expect there was one or twoother things he might have been; such as manager of a gift shop, orwindow dresser for the misses' department, or music teacher in a girls'boarding school. But I doubt if he'd ever been such a success as he wasat the high desk. Seemed like he was born to be an assistant auditor. Hewas holding the job when I first came to the Corrugated as sub officeboy; he still has it, and I can think of only one party that could pryhim loose from it--the old boy with the long scythe.
For one thing, Ernie gives all his time to being assistant auditor. Notjust office hours. I'll bet he's one even in his sleep. He looks thepart, dresses the part, thinks the part. He don't work at it, he livesit. Talk about this four dimension stuff. Ernie gets along with two--upthe column from the bottom, and both ways from the decimal point.
Not such a bad-lookin' chap, Ernie, only a bit stiff from the waist up.You know, like he had his spine in a cast. Then there's the neck-apple.Ernie fits his into a high white wing collar and sets it off with ablack ascot tie and a pearl stickpin. Also he sports the only blackcutaway that's worn reg'lar into the General Offices. Oh, yes, Erniecould go on at a minute's notice as best man or pall-bearer. I don'tmean he's often called on to be either. He only wears that costumebecause that's his idea of how an assistant auditor should be arrayed.
One of these super-system birds, Ernie is. He could turn out an annualreport every Saturday if the directors asked for it. Never has to huntfor a bunch of stray figures. He has everything cross-indexed neat andaccurate. He's that way about everything, always a spare umbrella and anextra pair of rubbers in his locker, and he carries a pearl-handlepenknife in a chamois case.
But in spite of all that I'm sorry to state that around the CorrugatedErnie is rated as a walking joke. We all josh him, even up to OldHickory Ellins. The only ones he ever seems to mind much though are thelady typists. The hardest thing he does during the day is when he has towalk past that battery of near-vamps, for they never fail to lay down arolling eye barrage that gets him pink in the ears.
Course, having noticed that, I generally use it as my cue for passingpleasant words to Ernie. "Honest now," I'll ask him, "which one of themLizzie Mauds are you playin' as favorite these days, Ernie?"
And Ernie, he'll color up like a fire hydrant and protest: "Now, say,Torchy! You know very well I've never spoken to one of them."
"Yes, you tell it well," I'll say, "but I'm onto you, old sport."
I don't know how long I've been shooting stuff like that at Ernie, andit always gets him going. I have a hunch, though, that he kind of likesit. These skirt-shy boys usually do. And as a matter of fact I expectthe only female he ever looked square in the eye is that old maid sisterof his that he lives with somewhere over in Jersey.
So this night when we were doing overtime together at the office and itwas a case of going out for dinner I'd planned to slip a littlesomething on Ernie by towin' him to a joint where the lights werebright and they were apt to have silver buckets on the floor. I washoping he might see some perfect lady light up a cigarette, or maybegive him a cut-up glance over the top of her fizz goblet. It would becheerin' to watch Ernie tryin' to let on he didn't notice.
He'd already called Sister on the long distance telephone and told hernot to wait up for him, explainin' just what it was we was workin' onand how we might not be through until quite late. And Sister had advisedhim to be sure to wear his silk muffler and not to sleep past hisstation if he had to take the 11:48 out.
"Gosh, Ernie!" says I. "If you 're that way now what'll you be whenyou're married?"
"But I hadn't thought of getting married," says he. "Really!"
"Yes," says I, "and you silent, thoughtless boys are the very ones whojump into matrimony unexpected. Some evenin' you'll meet just the rightbabidoll and the next thing we know you'll be sendin' us at home cards.You act innocent enough in public, but I'll bet you're a bear when itcomes to workin' up to a quick clinch behind the palms."
Ernie almost gasps with horror at the thought.
"Oh, I wouldn't put it past you," says I. "I expect, though, you'd liketo have me class you among the great unkissed?"
"As a matter of fact," says Ernie solemn, "I have never--Well, notsince I was a mere boy, at least. It--it's just happened so."
"And you past thirty!" says I. "What a long spell to be out of luck!"
So I suggests that we work through until about 7:45 and then hit theRegal roof for a $2 feed and a view of some of this fancy skatin'they're pullin' off there. But that ain't Ernie's plan at all. He hashis mouth all set for an oyster stew and a plate of crullers down in theArcade beanerie.
"Ah, forget your old automatic habits for once," says I. "This dinner ison the house, you know, so why not make it a reg'lar one? Come along."
And for a wonder I persuades him to do it. I expect this idea ofchargin' it on the expense account hadn't occurred to him.
Anyway, that's how it come we were piking through West Forty-fifthStreet with the first of the theater crowds, Ernie still protestin' thathe really didn't care for this sort of thing--cabaret stunts and allthat--and me kiddin' him along as usual, sayin' I'll bet the head waiterwould call him by his first name, when the net is cast sudden overErnie's head.
I don't know which one of us saw her first. All I'm sure of is that weboth sort of slowed up and did the gawp act. You could hardly blame us,for here in a taxi by the curb is--Well, it would take Robert Chambers apage and a half at twenty cents a word to do her full justice, so I'lljust say she was a lovely lady.
No, I ain't gettin' her mixed with any of Mr. Ziegfeld's stars, nor sheain't any broker's bride plucked from the switch-board. She's the realthing in the lady line, though how I knew it's hard to tell. Also she'sa home-grown siren that works without the aid of a lip-stick, permanentwave, or an eyebrow pencil. Anyway, here she is leaning through the taxidoor and shootin' over the alluring smile.
I couldn't quite believe it was meant for either of us until I'd scoutedaround to see if there wasn't someone else in line. No, there wasn't.And as Ernie is nearest, course I knows it's for him.
"Ah, ha!" says I. "Who's your friend with the golden tresses?"
That's what they were, all right. You don't see hair like that everyday, and it ain't the shade which can be produced at a beauty parlor.It's the 18-karat kind, done up sort of loose and careless, but all themore dangerous for that. And with that snowy white complexion, exceptfor the pink flush on the cheeks, and the big, starry blue eyes, shesure is a stunner.
"Do--do you think she means me?" whispers Ernie husky, as we stop in ourtracks.
"Ah come!" says I. "This is no time to stall. If she hadn't spotted youdirect you might have let on you didn't see her, and strolled backafter you'd given me the slip. As it is, Ernie, I've got the goods onyou for once and you might as well----"
"But I--I don't know her at all," insists Ernie.
Just then, though, she reaches out a pair of bare arms and remarks realfolksy: "At last you've come, haven't you?"
"Seems to be fairly well acquainted with you, though, Ernie boy," saysI.
As for Ernie, he just stands there starin' bug-eyed and gaspy, as if hedidn't know what to do. Course, I couldn't tell why. I knew he alwayshad acted like a poor prune when he was kidded by the flossy keypounders in the office, but almost any nut could see this was anentirely different case. Here was a regular person, all dolled up in aclassy evening gown
, with a fur-trimmed opera cape slippin' off hershoulders. And she was givin' him the straight call.
"But--but there must be some mistake," protests Ernie.
"If there is," says I, "it's up to you to put the lady wise. You can'twalk off and leave her with her hands in the air, can you? Ah, don't bea fish! Step up."
With that I gives him a push and Ernie staggers over to the curb.
"It's been so long," I hears the lady murmur, "but I knew you wouldremember. Come."
What Ernie said then I didn't quite catch, but the next thing I knewhe'd been dragged in, the chauffeur had got the signal, and as the taxistarted off toward Fifth Avenue I had a glimpse of what looked very muchlike a fond clinch, with Ernie as the clinchee.
And there I am left with my mouth open. I expect I hung up there fullyten minutes, tryin' to dope out what had happened. Had Ernie just beenstallin' me off tryin' to establish an alibi? Or was it a case of poormemory? No, that didn't seem likely. She wasn't the kind of a femaleparty a man could forget easy, if he'd ever really known her. Speciallya gink like Ernie who'd had such a limited experience. Nor she wasn'tthe type that would go out cruisin' in a cab after perfect strangers.Not her. Besides, hadn't she recognized Ernie on sight? Then there wasthe quick clinch. No discountin' that. Whoever it was it's somebody whodon't hesitate to hug Ernie right in public. And yet he sticks to it,right up to the last, that he don't know her. Well, I gave it up.
"Either he's a foxier sport than we've been givin' him credit for,"thinks I, "or else the lady has made the mistake of her life. If she hasshe'll soon find it out and Ernie will be trailing back on the hunt forme."
But after walkin' up and down the block three times without seeinganything that looked like Ernie I dodges into a chop-house and has abite all by my lonesome. Then I wanders back to the general offices andtries to wind up what we'd been workin' on. But I couldn't helpwondering about Ernie. Had he just plain buffaloed me, or what? If hehad, who was his swell lady friend? And how did she come to be waitin'there in the taxi? By the way she was costumed she might have been onher way to some dinner dance on Fifth Avenue. That was a perfectlyspiffy evening dress she had on, what there was of it. And I couldremember jewels sparklin' here and there. Course, she was no chicken;somewhere under thirty would have been my guess, but she sure was easyto look at. Such eyes, too! Yes, a little starry maybe, but big andsparkly. No wonder Ernie didn't care to look at any of our lady typistsif he had that in the background.
So I wasn't gettin' ahead very fast untanglin' them dockage contracts,and before 11 o'clock I was yawning. I'd just decided to quit and loafaround the station until the theater train was ready when I hears anunsteady step in the outer office and the next minute in blows Ernie.
That is, it's somebody who looks a little as Ernie did three hoursbefore. But his derby is busted in on one side, one end of his wingcollar has been carried away and is ridin' up towards his left ear, hiscoat is all dusty, and his face is flushed up like a new fire truck.
"For the love of soup!" says I, gaspy. "Must have been some party?"
Ernie, he braces himself by grippin' a chair-back and makes a stab atrecoverin' his usual stiff-neck pose. But it's a flat failure. So hegives up, waves one hand around vague, and indulges in a foolish smile.
"Wha'--wha' makes you think sho--party?" he demands.
"I got second sight, Ernie," says I, "and it tells me you've beenspilled off the wagon."
"You--you think I--I've been drinkin'?" asks Ernie indignant.
"Oh, no," says I. "I should say you'd been using a funnel."
"Tha's--tha's because you have 'spischus nashur'," protests Ernie."Merely few glasshes. You know--bubblesh in stem."
"Champagne, eh?" says I. "Then it was a reg'lar party? Ernie, I amsurprised at you."
"You--you ain't half so shurprised as--as I am myshelf," says he,chucklin'. "Tha's what I told Louishe."
"Oh, you mentioned it to Louise, did you?" says I. "I expect that wasthe lovely lady who carted you off in the taxi?"
He nods and springs another one of them silly smiles. "Tha's ri'," sayshe. "The lovely Louishe."
"Tell me, Ernie," says I, "how long has this been going on?"
And what do you suppose this fathead has the front to spring on me? Thatthis was the first time he'd ever seen her. Uh-huh! He sticks to thattale. Even claims he don't know what the rest of her name is.
"Louishe, tha's all," says he. "Th' lovely Louishe."
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll let it ride at that. And I expect shepicked you out all on account of your compelling beauty? Must have beena sudden case, from the fond clinch I saw you gettin' as the cabstarted."
Ernie closed his eyes slow, like he was goin' over the scene again, andthen remarks: "Thash when I begun to be surprished. Louishe has mostaffec-shanate nashur."
"So it would seem," says I. "But where did the party take place?"
That little detail appears to have escaped Ernie. He remembered thatthere were pink candles on the table, and music playing, and a lot ofnice people around. Also that the waiter's head was shiny, like an egg.He thought it must have been at some hotel on Fifth Avenue. Yes, theywent in through a sidewalk canopy. It was a very nice dinner,too--'specially the pheasant and the parfait in the silver cup. And itwas so funny to watch the bubbles keep coming up through the glass stem.
"Yes," says I, "that's one of New York's favorite winter sports. Butwho was all this on--Louise?"
"She insists I'm her guesh," says Ernie.
"That made it very nice, then, didn't it?" says I. "But none of thisaccounts for the dent in your hat and the other rough-house signs.Somebody must have got real messy with you at some stage in the game.Remember anything about that?"
"Oh!" says Ernie, stiffenin' up and tryin' to scowl. "Most--mostdisagreeable persons. Actually rude."
"Who and where?" I insists.
"Louishe's family," says Ernie. "I--I don't care for her family. No.Sorry, but----"
"Mean to say Louise took you home after dinner?" says I.
Ernie nods. "Wanted me to meet family," says he. "Dear old daddy,darling mother, sho on. 'Charmed,' says I. I was willing to meet anyonethen. Right in the mood. 'Certainly,' says I. Feeling friendly. Pattedwaiter on back, waved to orchestra leader, shook handsh with perfectstranger going out. Went to lovely house, uptown somewhere. Fine ol'butler, fine ol' rugsh in hall, tapeshtries on wall. And then--then----"
Ernie slumps into a chair, pushes the loose collar end away from hischin fretful, and indulges in a deep sigh. I expect he thinks he's toldthe whole story.
"I take it," says I, "that you did meet dear old daddy?"
"Washn't so very old, at thash," says Ernie. "No. Nor such a dear.Looksh like--like Teddy Roosh'velt. Behavesh like Teddy, too.Im--impeshuous. Very firsh thing he says is, 'And who the devil areyou?' 'Guesh?' I tells him. 'Give you three guesshes.' He--he's no goodas guessher, daddy. Grabsh me by the collar. 'You, you loafer!' says he.Then the lovely Louishe comes to rescue. 'Can't you see, daddy?' shetells him. 'It's Ernie. Found him at lash.' 'Ernie who?' demandsh daddy.'I--I forget,' says Louishe. 'Bah!' saysh daddy. 'Lash time it wasHarold, wasn't it?' 'Naughty, naughty!' saysh I. 'Mustn't tell talesh.Bad form, daddy. Lessh all be calm now and--and we'll tell you aboutdinner--bubblesh in the glass, 'n'everything. Louishe and I. Lovelygirl, Louishe. Affecshonate nashur.' And thash as far as I got.Different nashur, daddy."
"I gather that he didn't insist on your staying?" says I.
No, he hadn't. As near as I could make out dear old daddy took a firmgrip on Ernie in two places, and while the fine old butler held thefront door open he got more impetuous than ever. As Ernie tells me aboutit he rubs himself reminiscent and gazes sorrowful at his dented derby.
"Mosh annoying," says he. "Couldn't even shay good night to lovelyLouishe."
"Oh, well," says I. "You can make up for that when you pay your dinnercall. By the way, where was this home of the lovely Louise?"
Ernie doesn't know. When he'd arriv
ed he was too busy to notice thestreet and number, and when he came out he was too much annoyed. Also hedidn't remember having heard Louise's last name.
"Huh!" says I. "Except for that everything is all clear, eh? It strikesme, Ernie, as if you'd worked up a perfectly good mystery. You've beenkidnapped by a lovely lady, had a swell dinner, with plenty of fizz onthe side, been introduced to a strong-arm father, and finished on thesidewalk with your lid caved in. And for an assistant auditor whoblushes as easy as you do that's what I call kind of a large evening."
Ernie nods. Then he chuckles to himself, sort of satisfied, and remarksmushy: "Lovely girl, Louishe."
"Yes, we've admitted all that," says I. "But who the blazes is she?"
Ernie rumples his hair thoughtful and then shakes his head.
"But during all that time didn't she say anything about herself, or giveyou any hint?" I goes on.
Ernie can't remember that she did.
"What was all the chat about?" I demands.
"Oh, everything," says Ernie. "She--she said she'd been looking for melong timesh. Knew me by--by my eyesh."
"How touching!" says I. "That must have been during the clinch."
"Yes," says Ernie. "But nexsh time----"
"Say," I breaks in, "if you don't know what her name is, or where shelives, how do you figure on a next time?"
"Thash so," says Ernie. "Too bad."
"Still," says I, "the kiss stringency in your young career has beenlifted, hasn't it? And now it's about time I fixed you up and towed youout to a hotel where you can hit the feathers for about ten hours. Myhunch is that a pitcher of ice water is going to look mighty good to youin the morning. And maybe by tomorrow noon you can remember more detailsabout Louise than you can seem to dig up now."
You can't always tell about these birds who surprise you that way. I wasonly an hour late in getting to the office myself next day, but I findsErnie at his desk looking hardly any the worse for wear, and grindingaway as usual. He looks a little sheepish when I ask him if Louise has'phoned him yet.
"S-s-sh!" says he, glancin' around cautious. "Please!"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Trust me. I'm no sieve. But I'm wondering ifyou'll ever run across her again."
"I--I don't know," says Ernie. "It all seems so vague and queer. I can'trecall much of anything except that Louise---- Well, she did show rathera fondness for me, you know; and perhaps, some time or other----"
"Yes," says I, "lightnin' does occasionally strike twice in the sameplace. But not often, Ernie."
He's a wonder, Ernie is. Seems satisfied to let it go as it stands,without trying to dope anything out. But me, I can't let anybody bat amystery like that up to me without going through a few Sherlock Holmesmotions. So that evening finds me wandering through Forty-fifth Streetagain at about the same hour. Not that I expected to find the samelovely lady ambushed in a cab. I don't know just what I was looking for.
And then, all of a sudden, I gets my eye on this yellow taxi. It's anodd shade of yellow, something like a pale squash pie; a big, lumberingold bus that had been repainted by some amateur. And I was willing tobet there wasn't another in town just like it. Also it's the one Erniehad stepped into the night before, for there's the same driver wearingthe identical square-topped brown derby. Only there's no Louise waitinginside.
They're a shifty bunch, these independents. Some you can hire for abank robbing job or a little act with gun play in it, and some youcan't. This mutt looked like he'd be up to anything. But when I asks himif he remembers the lady in the evening dress he had aboard last nighthe just looks stupid and shakes his head.
"Oh, it's all right," says I. "No come-back to it."
"Mebby so," says he, "but my big line, son, is forgettin' things."
"Would this help your memory any?" says I, slippin' him a couple ofdollars.
He grins and stows it away the kale. "Aw, you mean the party with thewild eyes, eh?" he asks.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "I was just curious to know where you picked her up."
"That's easy," says he. "She came out of there, third door above. I getmost of my fares from there."
"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."
"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. Youknow," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. Theyslip out now and then. Last night she made her getaway through thebasement door. I expect she's back by now."
"Yes," says I, "I expect she is."
And I don't need to ask any more. The mystery of the lovely Louise hasbeen cleared up complete.
First off I was going to tell Ernie all about it, but when I saw himsitting there at his high desk, gazin' sort of blank at nothing at alland kind of smilin' reminiscent, I didn't have the heart. Instead, Iasks confidential, as usual:
"Any word yet from Louise?"
"Not yet," says Ernie, "but then----"
"I get you," says I. "And I got to hand it to you, Ernie; you're a cageyold sport, even if you don't look it."
He don't deny. Hadn't I seen him start on his big night? And say, he'sgettin' so he can walk past that line of lady typists and give 'em theonce over without changin' color in the ears. He's almost skirt broken,Ernie is.