Part 11 (1/2)
”That,” says Mr. Robert, ”is something I mean to find out.”
And say, if you ever see that jaw of Mr. Robert's, you'll know he did.
And she wa'n't an Astor or a Gould in disguise. She was just plain Miss Morgan, that had come on with her mother from Kansas City, or Omaha, or somewhere out there; put in six or eight months in a swell dressmaker's shop; learned how to make herself the kind of clothes that look like ready money; shuffled off her corn-belt accent; and then broke into the typewritin' game while she waited for somethin' better to turn up.
”And Benny was it, wa'n't he?” says I to Mr. Robert.
”With your help, Torchy,” says he, ”it appears that he was.”
”Well,” says I, ”he needed the push, all right, didn't he!”
Fired? Me? Ah, quit your kiddin'! Why, they're tickled to death now, all of 'em. They're beginnin' to find out that Mildred's quite a girl, even if she ain't got a lot of fat-wad folks back of her.
And say, w'atcher think! Benny comes around here the other day wearin' a broad grin, lugs me out to his tailor's to have me taped for a whole outfit of glad rags, and says I've got to be one of the ushers at the weddin'. Wouldn't that sting you?
CHAPTER VI
SHUNTING BROTHER BILL
Don't talk to me about weddin's! Sure, I've been mixed up in one. Maybe there was orange blossoms and so on; but all that's handed me is a bunch of lemon buds. Not that I'm carryin' any grouch. I might have known better'n to b.u.t.t into any such doin's. Long as I stick to bein' head office boy, I knows who's what, and what's which, and anyone that thinks they can give me the double cross is welcome to a try; but when it comes to sittin' in at a wilt-thou fest I'm a reg'lar Cousin Zeke from the red-mitten belt.
Maybe I wouldn't have done so bad, though, if it hadn't been for Aunt Laura. And say, mark it up on the bulletin right here, she ain't my aunt! She's Benny's. I was tellin' you how I loaded Mildred, our lady typewriter that was, into Mr. Robert's car alongside of Bashful Benny, and what came of it, wa'n't I! And how Benny's so grateful that he says I've got to be one of the ushers?
Well, it was all goin' lovely, and the gen'ral office force has chipped in and bought 'em a swell weddin' present, and Benny's tailor has built me a pair of striped pants and a John Drew coat, and Mr. Mallory's been coachin' me how to act when I chase the folks into their seats, and Piddie's been loadin' me up with polite conversation to fire off whenever I gets a show, and everything's as gay around the shop as though the directors had voted an extra dividend--when I'm stacked up against Aunt Laura and it begins to cloud in the west.
Aunt Laura is all Benny can show up for a fam'ly, and after you got to know her you couldn't blame him for wantin' to start in on a new deal.
She's one of them narrow-eyed old girls that can look through a keyhole without turnin' her head, and can dig up more suspicions in a minute than most folks would in a month. I'll bet if the angel Gabriel should show up and send in his card she'd make him prove who he was by playin'
the horn.
It was a cinch she didn't mistake me for no angel, when Mr. Robert sends me up there to do an errand for Benny. I wa'n't callin' for no aunts, anyway, but just leavin' a note for Wilson--that's Benny's man--when this sharp-nosed old party comes rubberin' into the front hall.
”Marie,” says she to the girl, ”what boy is this? Where did he come from? Who does he want to see? Don't you dare leave him alone for a minute!”
That last touch gets me in the short ribs. ”Ah, say,” says I, ”do I look like a hallrack artist?”
”That'll do, young man!” says she. ”You may not be as bad as you look; but I have my doubts.”
”Same to you, ma'am, and many of 'em,” says I.
”Mercy!” says she. ”What impertinence!”
”Please, ma'am,” says the girl, ”Mr. Ellins sent him up, and I----”
”Oh!” says the old one. Then she gives me another look. ”Boy,” says she, ”what's your name!”
”Torehy,” says I. ”Ain't it a snug fit?”
”Oh!” says she again, and with the soft pedal on. ”You're Torchy, are you?”