by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER VIII
HOW BABE MISSED HIS STEP
What Babe Cutler was plannin' certainly listened like a swell party--thekind you read about. He was going to round up three other sports likehimself, charter a nice comfortable yacht, and spend the winter knockin'about in the West Indies, with a bunch of bananas always hangin' underthe deck awning aft and a cabin steward forward mixing planter's punchevery time the sun got over the yard arm.
"The lucky stiff!" thinks I, as I heard him runnin' over some of thedetails to Mr. Robert, who he thinks can maybe be induced to join.
"Oh, come along, Bob!" says he. "We'll stop off for a look at Palm Beachon the way down, hang up a few days at Knight's Key for shark fishing,then run over to Havana for a week of golf, drop around to Santiago andcheer up Billy Pickens out on his blooming sugar plantation, cross overto Jamaica and have some polo with the military bunch up atNewcastle--little things like that. Besides, we can always have a gameof deuces wild going evenings and----"
"No use, Babe," breaks in Mr. Robert. "It can't be done. That sort ofthing is all well enough for a foot-loose old bach such as you, but withme it's quite different."
"The little lady at home, eh?" says Babe. "I'll bet she'd be glad to getrid of you for a couple of months."
"Flatterer!" says Mr. Robert. "And I suppose you think I wouldn't bemissed from the Corrugated Trust, either?"
"I'll bet a hundred you could hand your job over to Torchy here and theconcern would never know the difference," says Babe, winkin' friendly atme. "Anyway, don't turn me down flat. Take a day or so to think itover."
And with that Mr. Cutler climbs into his mink-lined overcoat, slips me aten spot confidential as he passes my desk, and goes breezin' outtowards Broadway. The ten, I take it, is a retainer for me to boost theyachtin' enterprise. I shows it to Mr. Robert and grins.
"There's only one Babe," says he. "He'd offer a tip to St. Peter, orsuggest matching quarters to see whether he was let in or barred out."
"He's what I'd call a perfect sample of the gay and careless sport,"says I. "How does it happen that he's escaped the hymeneal noose solong?"
"Because marriage has never been put up to him as a game, a sportingproposition in which you can either win or lose out," says Mr. Robert."He thinks it's merely a life sentence that you get for not watchingyour step. Just as well, perhaps, for Babe isn't what you would calldomestic in his tastes. Give him a 'Home, Sweet Home' motto and he'dtack it inside his wardrobe trunk."
I expect that's a more or less accurate description, for Mr. Robert hasknown him a long time. And yet, you can't help liking Babe. He ain't oneof these noisy tin-horns. He dresses as quiet as he talks, and amongstrangers he'd almost pass for a shy bank clerk having a day off. He'sthe real thing though when it comes to pleasant ways of spending timeand money; from sailing a 90-footer in a cup race, to qualifying in thesecond flight at Pinehurst. No shark at anything particular, Iunderstand, but good enough to kick in at most any old game you canpropose.
Also he's an original I. W. W. Uh-huh. Income Without Work. That wasfixed almost before he was born, when his old man horned in on a bigmill combine and grabbed off enough preferred stock to fill a packingcase. Maybe you think you have no interest in financin' Babe Cutler'scareer. But you have. Can't duck it. Every time you eat a piece ofbread, or a slice of toast or a bit of pie crust you're contributin' toBabe's dividends. And he knows about as much how flour is made as hedoes about gettin' up in the night to warm a bottle for littleTootsums. Which isn't Babe's fault any more than it's yours. As he'dtell you himself, if the case was put up to him, it's all in theshuffle.
He must have had some difficulty organizin' his expedition, for thatsame afternoon, when I eases myself off the 4:03 at Piping Rock--havingquit early, as a private sec-de-luxe should now and then--who shouldshow up at the station but Mr. Cutler in his robin's-egg blue sportphaeton with the white wire wheels.
"I say," he says, "didn't Bob come out, too?"
"No," says I. "I think he and Mrs. Ellins have a dinner party on intown."
"Bother!" says Babe. "I was counting on him for an hour or so ofbilliards and another go at talking up the cruise. We'll land him yet,eh, Torchy? Hop in and I'll run you out home."
So I climbs aboard, Babe opens the cut-out, and we make a skyrocketstart.
"How about swinging around the country club and back through the middleroad? No hurry, are you?" he asks.
"Not a bit," says I, glancin' at the speedometer, which was touchin'fifty.
"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel,you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there.Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, butthey're all over the place--climbing on you, mauling you, tripping youup. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngstersare always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep outof the way until dinner."
"I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?"
"Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "Butwhen they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with stickyfingers--no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to thinkthey are all little wonders. And Dick is just as bad--rushes home earlyevery afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!"
"Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family ofyour own."
"Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!"
I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shiedmatrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on SisterMabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, awife and kids wouldn't fit in at all.
We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on theback stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams onthe emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyondwhere this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-linedthrow-scarf.
"What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back.
"Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch ofyoungsters with her and--yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!"
"O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must."
As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a lookat this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky aroundthis young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle ontop of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin'a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'.
"You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe.
"Heavens, no!" says he.
"But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on.
"Why, let's see," says Babe. "Oh, yes! Put a cold door key on the backof his neck."
"Or a piece of brown paper on his tongue," I adds.
The young lady shrugs her shoulders disappointed. "I've tried all that,"says she, "and an ice pack, too. But it's no use. I must get him to adoctor right away. There's one about a mile down this road. Couldn't youtake us?"
"Sure thing!" says Babe. "Torchy, you can hang on the back, can't you?"
"Oh, I can walk home," says I.
"No, no," says Babe, hasty. "You--you'd best come along."
So I helps load in the young lady and the claret drippin' youngster,drapes myself on the spare tires, and we're off.
"Is it little brother?" asks Babe, glancin' at the kid.
"Mine?" says the young lady. "Of course not. I'm Lucy Snell--one of theteachers at the public school back there at the cross-roads. Some of thechildren always insist on walking part way home with me, especiallylittle Billy here. Usually he behaves very nicely, but today he seems tobe out of luck. His nose started leaking fully half an hour ago. He musthave leaked quarts and quarts, all over himself and me. You wouldn'tthink he could have a drop left in him. I was just about crazy when Isaw you coming. There's Dr. Baker's house on the right around that nextcurve. And say, there's some spe
ed to this bus of yours, Mr.--er----"
"Cutler," says Babe. "Here we are. Anything more I can do?"
"Why," says Miss Snell, as I'm unbuttonin' the door for her, "you mightstick around a few minutes to see if he wants little Billy taken to thehospital or anything. I'll let you know." And with that she trips in.
"Lively young party, eh?" I remarks to Babe. "Don't mind askin' for whatshe wants."
"Perfectly all right, too," says he, "in a case like this. She isn't oneof the helpless kind. Some pep to her, I'll bet. Lucy, eh? I always didlike that name."
I had to chuckle. "What about the Snell part?" says I. "That one of yourfavorite names, too?"
"N--n--no," says Babe. "But she'll probably change that some of thesedays. She's the sort that does, you know."
"I expect you are right, at that," I agrees.
Pretty soon out she comes again, calm and smilin'. It's some smile shehas, by the way. Wide and generous and real folksy. And now that thescare has faded out of her eyes they have more or less snap to 'em.They're the bright brown kind, that match her hair, and the frecklesacross the bridge of her nose.
"It's all right," says she. "Dr. Baker says the ice pack did the trick.And he'll take Billy home as soon as he's cleaned him up a bit. Thanks,Mr. Cutler."
"Oh, I might as well drive you home, too, and finish the job," saysBabe.
"Well, I'm not missing anything like that, I can tell you," says MissSnell. "I'm simply soaked with that youngster's gore. But I live wayback on the other road. My! Billy dripped some on your seat cushions,didn't he?"
"Oh, that will wash out," says Babe careless. "You're fond ofyoungsters, I suppose?"
"Well, in a way I am," says she. "I'm used to 'em anyway, being one ofsix myself. That's why I'm out teaching--makes one less for Dad to haveto rustle for. He keeps the little plumber's shop down opposite thestation. You've seen the sign--T. Snell."
"I've no doubt I have," says Babe. "And you--you like teaching, do you?"
"Why, I can't say I'm dead in love with it," says Miss Snell. "Not thissecond grade stuff, anyway. It's all I could qualify for, though. Thisis my second year at it. I don't suppose you ever taught second gradeyourself, did you?"
Babe almost gasps, but admits that he never has.
"Then take my advice and don't tackle it," says Miss Snell. "Not thatyou would, of course, but that's what I tell all the girls who think Ihave such a soft snap with my Saturdays off and a two months' summervacation. Believe me, you need it after you've drilled forty youngstersall through a term. D-o-g, dog; c-a-t, cat. Why will the little impssing it through their noses? It's the same with the two-times table. Andthey can be so stupid! I don't believe I was meant for a teacher,anyway, for it all seems so useless to me, making them go through allthat, and keeping still for hours and hours, when they want so much tobe outdoors playing around. I'd like to be out myself."
"But after school hours," suggests Babe, "you surely have time to go infor sports of some kind."
"What do you mean, sports?" asks Miss Snell.
"Oh, tennis, or horseback riding, or golf," says Babe.
She turns around quick and stares at him. "Are you kidding?" shedemands. "Or do you want to get me biting my upper lip? Say, on fivehundred a year, with board to pay and clothes to buy, you can't go invery heavy for sports. I did blow myself to a tennis racquet andrubber-soled shoes last summer and my financial standing has been belowpar ever since. As for spare time, there's no such thing. When I'vefinished helping Ma do the supper dishes there's always a pile of lessonpapers to go over, and reports to make out. And Saturdays I can do mywashing and mending, maybe shampoo my hair or make over a hat orsomething. Can you figure in any chance for golf or horseback riding? Ican't, even if club dues were free to schoolma'ams and the board shouldsend around a lot of spotted ponies for our use. Not that I wouldn'tlike to give those things a whirl once. I'm just foolish enough tothink I could do the sport stuff with the best of 'em."
"I'll bet you could, too," says Babe, enthusiastic. "You--you're justthe type."
"Yes," says Miss Snell, "and a fat lot of good that's going to do me. Sowhat's the use talking? In a year or so I suppose I'll be swinging abroom around my own little flat, coaxing a kitchen range to hump itselfat 6:30 a.m., and hanging out a Monday wash for two."
"Oh!" says Babe. "Then you've picked out the lucky chap?"
"I don't know whether he's lucky or not," says she. "It isn't reallysettled, anyway. Pete Snyder has been hanging around for some time, andI expect I'll give in if he keeps it up. He's Dad's helper, you know,and he isn't more'n half as dumb as he looks. Gosh! Here we are. I hopenone of the kids see you bringing me home and tell Pete about it. He'dbe green in the eye for a week. Good-by, Mr. Cutler, and much obliged."
As she skips out and up the path toward the little ramshackle cottageshe turns and flashes one of them wide smiles on Babe and gives him afriendly wave.
"Well," says I. "Pete might do worse."
"I believe you," says Babe, kind of solemn.
Course, I didn't keep any close track of Mr. Cutler for the next fewdays. There was no special reason why I should. I supposed he was busymakin' up his quartette for that Southern cruise. So about a week laterI'm mildly surprised to hear that he's still stayin' on over at SisterMabel's. I didn't really suspicion anything until one afternoon, alongin the middle of January, when as I steps off the 5:10 I gets a glimpseof Babe's blue racer waitin' at the crossing gates. And snuggled downunder the fur robe beside him, with her cheeks pinked up by the crispair and her brown eyes sparklin', is Miss Lucy Snell.
"Huh!" thinks I. "Still goin' on, eh? Or has Billy's little beak hadanother leaky spell?"
Couldn't have been many days after that before I comes home to find Veeall excited over some news she'd heard from Mrs. Robert Ellins.
"What do you think, Torchy!" says she. "That bachelor friend of Mr.Robert, a Mr. Cutler, was married last night."
"Eh!" says I. "Babe?"
"Yes," says Vee. "And to a village girl, daughter of T. Snell, theplumber. And his married sister is perfectly wild about it. Isn't itdreadful?"
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Might turn out all right."
"But--but she's a poor little school-teacher," protests Vee, "and Mr.Cutler is--is----"
"A rich sport," I puts in, "who's always had what he wanted. And Iexpect he thought he wanted Miss Snell. Looks so, don't it?"
I understand that Sister Mabel threw seven kinds of fits, and that thecountry club set was all worked up over the affair, specially one of theyoung ladies that had played in mixed foursomes with Babe and probablyhad the net out for him. But he didn't come back to apologize oranything like that. And the next we heard was that the happy pair hadstarted for Florida on their honeymoon.
Well, that seemed to finish the incident. Mr. Robert hunches hisshoulders and allows that Babe is old enough to manage his own affairs.Sister Mabel calmed down, and the disappointed young ladies crossed Babeoff the last-hope list. Besides, a perfectly good scandal broke out inthe bridge playing and dancing set, and Babe Cutler's rapid littleromance was forgotten. Five or six Sundays came and went, with Mondaysfollowing regular.
And then here the other afternoon, as I'm camped down next to the carwindow on my way home, who should tap me on the shoulder but the sameold Babe. That is, unless you looked close. For there's a worried,puzzled look in his wide set eyes and he don't spring the usual hail.
"Hello!" says I. "Ain't lost your baggage checks, have you?"
"It's worse than that," says he. "I--I've lost--Lucy."
"Wha-a-t!" says I, gaspy. "You don't mean she--she's----"
"No," says Babe. "She's just quit me and gone home."
"But--but why?" I blurted out.
"Lord knows," groans Babe. "That's what I want to find out."
Honest, it listens like a first-class mystery. According to him they'dbeen staying at one of the swellest joints he could find in the wholestate of Florida. Also he'd bought Lucy all the kind
s of clothes shewould let him buy, from sport suits to evening gowns. She'd taken up alot of different things, too--golf, riding, swimming, dancing. Seemed tobe having a bully time when--bang! She breaks out into a weepy spell andannounces that she is going home. Does it, too, all by her lonesome,leaving Babe to trail along by the next train.
"And for the life of me, Torchy," he declares, "I can't imagine why."
"Well, let's try to piece it out," says I. "First off, how have you beenspending your honeymoon?"
"Oh, golf mostly," says he. "I was runner up in the big tournament."
"I see," says I. "Thirty-six holes a day, eh?"
He nods.
"And a jack-pot session with the old crowd every evening?" I asks.
"Oh, only now and then," says he.
"With a few late parties down in the grill?" I goes on.
"Not a party," says Babe. "State's dry, you know. No, generally we wentinto the ballroom evenings and I helped Lucy try out the new steps shewas learning."
"You did!" says I. "Then I give it up."
"Me too," says Babe. "But I'm not going to give up Lucy. Say, she's aregular person, she is. She was making good, too, and having a whale ofa time when all of a sudden--Say, Torchy, if it was some break I made Iwant to know it, so I can square myself. She wouldn't tell me; wouldn'thave a word to say. But listen, perhaps if you asked her----"
"Hey, back up!" says I.
"You know, if it hadn't been for you I might never have seen her," hegoes on. "You were there when it began, and if there's to be a finishyou might as well be in on that, too. I've got to know what it was Idid, though. Honest, I can't remember anything particularly raw. Beenchewing over it for two nights. If you could just----"
Well, at the end of ten minutes I agrees to go up to the plumber'shouse, and if the new Mrs. Cutler will see me I says I'll put it up toher.
"But you got to come along and hang around outside while I'm doing it,"I insists.
"I'll do anything that either you or Lucy asks," says he. "I'll go thelimit."
"That listens fair enough," says I.
So that's how it happens I'm waitin' in the plumber's parlor for BabeCutler's runaway bride. And say, when she shows up in that zippy sportsuit, just in from a long tramp across country, she looks some classy.First off she's inclined to be nervous and jumpy and don't want to talkabout Babe at all.
"Oh, he's all right," says she. "I have nothing against him. He--hemeant well."
"As bad as that, was he?" says I. "I shall hate to tell him."
"But it wasn't Babe, at all," she insists. "Don't you dare say it was,either. If you must know, it was that awful hotel life. I--I justcouldn't stand it."
"Eh?" says I, and I expect I must have been gawpin' some. "Why, Iunderstand you were at one of the swellest----"
"We were," says she. "That was the trouble. And I suppose if I'd knownhow, I might have had a swell time. But I didn't. I'd had no practice.And say, if you think you can learn to be a regular winter resort personin a few weeks just try it once. I did. I went at it wholesale. All ofthe things I'd wanted to do and thought I could do, I tackled. It lookslike a lot of fun to see those girls start off with their golf clubs.Seems easy to swing a driver and crack out the little white ball. Takeit from me, though, it's nothing of the kind. Why, I spent hours andhours out on the practice tee with a grouchy Scotch professional tryingmy best to hit it right. And I couldn't. At the end of three weeks I wasstill a duffer. All I'd accumulated were palm callouses and a backache.Yet I knew just how it should be done. I can repeat it now. One--youtake your 'stance. Two--you start the head of the club back in astraight line with the left wrist. Three--you come up on your left toeand bend the right knee. And so on. Yet I'd dub the ball only a fewyards.
"Then, when that was over, I'd go in and change for my dancing lessons.More one--two--three stuff. And say, some of these new jazz steps arequeer, aren't they? I'd about got three or four all mixed up in my headwhen I'd have to run and jump into my riding habit and go through adifferent lot of one--two--three motions. And just as I'd lamed myselfin a lot of new places there would come the swimming lesson. I thought Icould swim some, too. I learned one summer down at Far Rockaway. But itseems that was old stuff. They aren't doing that now. No, it's thedouble side stroke, the Australian crawl, and a lot more. One, two,three, four, five, six. Legs straight, chin down, and roll on thethree. And if you dream it's a pleasure to have a big husk of aninstructor pump your arms back and forth for an hour, and say sarcasticthings to you when you get mixed, with a whole gallery of fat old womenand grinning old sports looking on--Well, I'm tellin' you it's fierce.Ab-so-lutely. It was the swimming lesson that finished me. Especiallythe counting. 'Why, Lucy Snell, you poor prune,' says I to myself,'you're not having a good time. You're back in school, second grade, andthe dunce of the class.' That's what I was, too. A flat failure. Andwhen I got to thinking of how Babe would take it when he foundout--Well, it got on my nerves so that I simply made a run for home.There! You can tell him all about it, and I suppose he'll never want tosee or hear of me again."
"Maybe," says I, "but I have my doubts. Anyway, it won't take long tomake a test."
And when I'd left her and strolled out to the gate where Babe is pacin'up and down anxious, he demands at once: "Well, did you find out?"
"Uh-huh," says I.
"Was--was it something I did?" he asks trembly.
"Sure it was," says I. "You let her in for an intensive training actthat would make the Paris Island marine school grind look like a wanddrill. You should have had better sense, too. Why, what she was tryingto sop up in six weeks most young ladies give as many years to. Near asI can judge she was making a game play of it, too. But of course shecouldn't last out. And it's a wonder she didn't wind up at a nervesanitarium."
"Honest!" says Babe, beamin' on me and grabbin' my hand. "Is--is thatall?"
"Ain't that enough?" says I.
"But that's so easy fixed," says he. "Why, I am bored stiff at theseresort places myself. I thought, though, that Lucy was having the timeof her young life. What a chump I was not to see! Say, we'll take afresh start. And next time, believe me, she's going to have just whatshe wants. That is, if I can persuade her to give me another trial."
It seems he did, for later on he tells me he's bought that cute littlestucco cottage over near the country club and that him and Lucy aregoing to settle down like regular people.
"With a nursery and all?" I asks.
"There's no telling," says Babe.
And with that we swaps grins.