Part 26 (1/2)

”Why,” says I, ”I don't live anywhere just now. I'm movin'; but I don't know where to.”

”I suppose that is either impudence or epigram,” says she; ”but never mind. Perhaps you will tell me where you work?”

”I don't work at all,” says I. ”I'm head office boy for the Corrugated Trust, and it's a cinch job.”

”Indeed!” says she. ”The Corrugated Trust? Let me see, who is at the head of that concern?”

”Say,” says I, ”you don't mean you never heard of Old Hickory Ellins or Mr. Robert, do you?”

She kind of smiles at that; but dodges makin' any answer.

”Well,” says I, ”do I get pinched, or just given the run? Either way, I've got some baggage down by the area door that ought to be looked after.”

”Why, certainly, I will have it----” then she stops and looks me over sort of shrewd. ”Suppose,” she starts in again, ”you go and get it yourself?”

”Sure!” says I, and it ain't until I'm outside that I sees this is just her way of tryin' me out; for I has a fine chance to beat it. ”Nix!”

thinks I. ”I might as well see this thing through and get a decision.”

So back I goes with the suitcase and laundry bag. She hadn't even followed me to the door.

”Ah!” says she, lookin' up. ”You weren't afraid to come back, then.

Why?”

”Oh, I guess it was because I banked on your givin' me a square deal,”

says I.

That gets a grin out of her. ”Thank you very much for the compliment,”

says she. ”I may say that the inquisition is over. However, I should like to have you remain a little longer, if you care to. Won't you leave your things in the hall there? Your hat and overcoat too.”

”Zen.o.bia,” says Martha, wakin' up, ”surely you are not going to----”

”Precisely,” says Zen.o.bia. ”I am going to ask him to stay for dinner with us. Will you?”

”Yep!” says I. ”I never let any free eats get by me.”

”But,” gasps Martha, ”you don't know who he is?”

”Neither does he know us,” says Zen.o.bia. ”Torchy, I am Mrs. Zen.o.bia Preble. This is my sister, Miss Martha Hadley. She is very good, I am very wicked, and we are both women of mature years. You will probably find our society rather dull; but the dinner is likely to be fairly good. Besides, I am feeling somewhat indebted to you.”

”It's a go,” says I, ”if I can have a chance to wash up first.”

”Of course,” says she. Then she gives me a key and directions how to find a certain door on the third floor. ”My son's quarters,” she goes on, ”that I have kept just as he left them twenty years ago. I shall expect you to make yourself quite at home there.”

Do I? Why, say, it's a back joint such as you might dream about: two rooms and bath across the front of the house, guns and swords and such knickknacks on the walls, a desk, a lot of books, and even a bathrobe and slippers laid out. Say, while I was scrubbin' off some of the inkstains and smoothin' down my hair with the silver-backed brushes I felt like a young blood gettin' ready for a party.

Then after awhile I strolls down to the lib'ry and makes myself to home some more. It's a comf'table place, with lots of big easy-chairs, nice pictures on the wall, and no end of bookshelves. The old ladies has cleared out, not even lockin' up any of the curios or sendin' a maid to watch me.

And when it comes to the feed--why, say, it's a reg'lar course dinner, such as you'd put up a dollar for at any of these high-cla.s.s table dotty ranches. Funny old china they had too, and a big silver coffeepot right on the table. The only bad break I makes is just at the start, when I dives into the soup without noticin' that Aunt Martha has her head down and is mumblin' something about bein' thankful.