Part 16 (1/2)
Chee! W'atcher think? I ain't read an ”Old Sleut'” for more'n a week, and there's two murder myst'ries runnin' in the sportin' extras that I'm way behind on. You wouldn't guess it in a month, but I'm takin' a fall out of the knowledge game. Mr. Mallory says I'm part in the sixt' grade and part in the eight'.
”I believe it,” says I; ”my nut feels that way.”
Honest, I'm stowin' away so much that I never knew before that I'm thinkin' of wearin' a leather strap around my head, same's these strong boys wears 'em on their wrists.
”Ah! w'at's the use?” says I. ”n.o.body's ever goin' to ask me what's four per cent of thoity thousand plunks, an' if I had that much I wouldn't farm it out for less'n six, anyway. And I don't see where this De Soto comes in. Sounds like he might have played first base for the Beanies; but he's been dead too long for that. What odds does it make if I don't know the capital of Nevada? I ain't lookin' for no divorce, am I?”
But there's no shakin' Mallory off. He's dug up a lot of kid school books for me, and I got 'em stowed away in the desk here, like this was P. S. 46, 'stead of the front office of the Corrugated Trust. And when I ain't takin' cards into the main squeezes, or answerin' fool questions over the 'phone, or chasin' out on errands for Piddie, I'm swallowin'
chunks of information about the times when G. Wash. was buildin' forts in Harlem and makin' good for a continuous in front of the Subtreasury.
Course, it's a clean waste of time. Suppose I gets the run next week, could I win another head office boy job by spielin' off a mess of guff about a lot of dead ones? Nit, never! But Mallory's got the bug that it'll all come in handy to me sometime, and I'm doin' it just to keep him satisfied. We get together most every night in his room, and I has to cough up what I've got next to durin' the day. And say, when I've been soldierin', and try to run in a stiff bluff instead of the real goods, he looks as disappointed as if I'd done something real low down.
So gen'rally I hits up the books when there's nothin' else doin'.
Mr. Robert's on. He comes in one mornin' and pipes off the 'rithmetic.
”What's this, Torchy?” says he. ”Studying?”
”Yep,” says I. ”When I went through Columbia College there wa'n't anybody there but the janitor; so I'm takin' a postprandial whirl at this number dope, and it's fierce.”
”Whose idea?” says he.
”Mr. Mallory's,” says I. ”But I've laid it out flat to him that I draws the line at Greek. I'd never want to talk like them 23d-st. flower peddlers, not in a thousand years!”
Didn't tell you, did I, about Mallory's doin' the skyrocket act? After Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory's a two seasons' old football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that twelve-dollar-a-week filin' job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of two days.
”Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy,” says Mallory.
”Honk, honk!” says I. ”Them's the kind of ideas that will get you run in for reckless thinkin'. You was winnin' all that when you did that sprint for goal your friend d.i.c.ky was tellin' about the other day. Now all you got to do is get up on your toes and make one or two touchdowns for old Corrugated.”
”I know,” says he; ”but I'm afraid that in this game I'm outcla.s.sed.”
Honest, he was scared stiff; but he didn't let anyone but me see it.
Even a little thing like goin' down to Wall Street and lookin' up some securities gets him rattled. He hadn't been gone more'n an' hour 'fore he calls me up on the 'phone and says some broker's clerk has asked him if our concern don't want to bid on P. O. privileges at seven-eighths.
”What are P. O. privileges?” says Mallory.
”Oh, tus.h.!.+” says I. ”And you let 'em hand you such a burry one? P. O.
privileges is the right to lick stamps at the gen'ral post-office, and it's a gag them curb shysters has wore to a frazzle. You go back and tell that fresh paper-chewer we're only buyin' options on July snow removals preferred.”
That's what comes of foolin' around at college. Mallory comes back lookin' like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window show.
But that was nothin' to the down-and-out slump I found him in next night, when I goes around for my writin' lesson and so on.
”Is it the _spino comeandgetus_,” says I, ”or has Miss Tuttifrutti sent back your Christmas card?”
”It's worse than either,” says he, with his chin on the top b.u.t.ton of his vest. ”I guess I'm what you would call a false alarm, Torchy. I've been tried out and haven't made good.”
”G'wan!” says I. ”Everyone gets a lemon now and then. Some tries to swaller it whole, and chokes to death; others mixes 'em up with eggs and things, and knocks out a pie, with meringue on top. Draw us a map of how you fell off the scaffold.”
Well, I jollied the hard luck tale out of him. It was a case of sendin'