On With Torchy. Ford Sewell
a dimple, I expect," says I.
"You're entirely too modest," says he. "Now, I remember several occasions when you have——"
"Oh, I gen'rally have my nerve with me, if that's what you mean," says I.
"But I don't mean that," says he. "Perhaps finesse is the better word."
"It's all the same to me," says I. "If I've got it in stock, it's yours. What do I work it on?"
"Mr. Higgins," says he.
"Then score up a goose egg in advance," says I. "It would take a strong-arm hypnotizer to put the spell on Ira."
Mr. Robert grins. "Then you have already tested Mr. Higgins' conversational powers?" says he.
"Almost lost my voice gettin' him to say good mornin'," says I. "Say, you'd think he'd done all his talkin' by cable, at a dollar a word. Where'd he drift in from, anyway?"
"Boothbay Harbor," says Mr. Robert.
"Is that a foreign country," says I, "or a nickname for some flag station?"
"It's quite a lively little seaport, I believe," says Mr. Robert, "up on the coast of Maine."
"Oh, Maine!" says I. "Up there they're willin' to call a town anything that'll get a laugh. But what's the rest of the scandal?"
It wasn't any thrillin' tale, though. Seems Mr. Robert had gone into the yachtin' regattas as usual this last summer; but, instead of liftin' the mugs, as he'd been in the habit of doin', he'd been beat out by a new entry—beat bad too. But he wouldn't be an Ellins if he let it go at that. Not much! His first move is to find out who built the Stingaree, and his next is to wire in an order to the same firm to turn out a sixty-footer that'll go her just one better. Not gettin' any straight answer to that, he sends word for the head of the yacht works to come on at his expense. Mr. Higgins is the result.
"But the deuce of it is," says Mr. Robert, "that, while I'm convinced he is the cleverest designer of racing yawls that we have in the whole country, and while he admits quite cheerfully that he can improve on this year's model, I can't get him to say positively that he will build such a boat for me."
"Yes, I should expect that would be more'n he'd let go of all in one day," says I.
"But, confound it all!" says Mr. Robert, "I want to know now. All I can get out of him, though, is that he can't decide for a while. Seems to have something or other on his mind. Now, if I knew what was bothering him, you see, I might—well, you get the point, Torchy. I'm going to leave it to you to find out."
"Me!" says I. "Gee! I ain't any thought extractor, Mr. Robert."
"But you have rather a knack of getting to the bottom of things," he insists, "and if I should explain to Mr. Higgins my regret at being unable to take him out to dinner, and should present you as my substitute for the evening—why, you might get some hint, you see. At least, I wish you'd try it."
"Bring him on, then," says I; "but it's like playin' a 30 to 1 shot. Oh, sure, a couple of tens'll be more'n enough for all the expense account we can cook up."
And you should have seen me towin' this Down East sphinx around town, showin' him the sights, and tryin' to locate his chummy streak. It was most like makin' a long distance call over a fuzzy wire; me strainin' my vocal chords bein' chatty, and gettin' back only now and then a distant murmur. It was Ira's first trip to a real Guntown, where we have salaried crooks and light up our Main-st. with whisky signs; but he ain't got any questions to ask or any comments to pass. He just allows them calm eyes of his to wander placid here and there over the passersby, almost like he was expectin' to see someone he knew, and takin' mighty little notice of anything in partic'lar.
"That's the Metropolitan tower over there, Mr. Higgins," says I. "See the big clock?"
Ira takes one glance and nods his head.
"And here comes one of them new double-decker Broadway cars they're tryin' out," I goes on. "How's that?"
But no enthus'm from Ira. Must be a hot town, that Boothbay joint! Along about six-thirty I suggests that it's time for the big eats, and tries to sound him on his partic'lar fancy in the food line.
"Plate of fish chowder would suit me," says Ira after due contemplation.
"Fish what?" says I. "'Fraid we don't grow anything like that on Broadway. Nix on the shore dinner! You trust it to me, Mr. Higgins, and I'll steer you up against some appetite teasers that'll make you forget all the home cookin' you ever met."
With that I leads him to the flossiest French cafe I knew of, got him planted comf'table under an illuminated grape arbor, signals François-with-the-gold-chain-around-his-neck to stand by, and remarks casual, "Wine list for this gentleman. Cut loose, Mr. Higgins. This is on the boss, you know."
"What say?" says he, runnin' his eye over the book that the waiter holds out. "Rum? No, Sir!"
"Flit then, François," says I. "We're two dry ones."
And my hope of gettin' a tongue loosener into Ira goes glimmerin'. When it comes to tacklin' strange dishes, though, he was no quitter, followin' me from bouillabaisse to café parfait without battin' an eyelash, and me orderin' reckless from the card just to see what the things looked like.
I don't know whether it was the fancy rations, or the sporty crowd around us, or the jiggly music, or a combination of all three; but by the time I've induced Mr. Higgins to tackle a demitasse and light up a seven-inch Havana he mellows enough so that he's almost on the point of makin' a remark all by himself.
"Well," says I encouragin', "why not let it come?"
And it does. "By gorry!!" says he. "It's most eight o'clock. What time do the shows begin?"
"I was just go in' to mention that," says I. "Plenty of time, though. Anything special you'd like to see?"
"Why, yes," says he. And then, glancin' around cautious, he leans across the table and asks mysterious, "Say, where's Maizie Latour actin'?"
Honest, it comes out so unexpected he had me gaspin'. "Oh, you Boothbay ringer!" says I. "Maizie, eh? Now, who would have thought it? And you only landed this mornin'! Maizie—er—what was that again?"
"Latour," says he, flushin' up some and tryin' not to notice my josh.
"It's by me," says I. "Sounds like musical comedy, though. Is she a showgirl, or one of the chicken ballet?"
Ira shakes his head puzzled. "All I know," says he, "is that she's actin' somewhere in New York, and—and I'd like to find out where. I—I got to!" he adds emphatic.
"Then you ought to have said that before," says I, "and Mr. Robert would have put one of his chappy friends on the job. Sorry, but when it comes to chorus girls, I ain't——"
"Hold on!" he breaks in. "You're sort of jumpin' at things, Son. The fact is I—well, I guess I might's well tell you as anyone. I—I got to tell someone."
"Help!" thinks I. "The dam's goin' to give way."
"You see," he goes on, "it's like this: Nellie's an old friend of mine, and——"
"Nellie!" says I. "You just said Maizie."
"That's what I hear she goes by on the stage," says he. "She was Nellie Mason up to the Harbor."
"You don't mean it?" says I. "What was she doin' there?"
"She was table girl at the Mansion House," says he.
"Which?" says I. "Oh, dish juggler, eh? And now she's on the stage? Some jump for Nellie! But, honest now, Higgins, you don't mean to spring one of them mossy 'Way Down East drammers on me as the true dope? Come now, don't tell me you and she used to go to school together, and all that!"
No, it wa'n't quite on that line. She was only one of Boothbay's fairest daughters by adoption, havin' drifted in from some mill town—Biddeford, I think it was—where a weaver's strike had thrown