Part 3 (1/2)

”He presents credentials signed by General Kitchener,” says Old Hickory.

”He's looking up munition contracts. Not the financial end. Nor is he an artillery expert. Just exactly what he is here for I've failed to discover, and I am too busy to bother with him.”

”I get you,” says I. ”You want him shunted.”

Old Hickory nods.

”Quite delicately, however,” he goes on.

”The Lieutenant seems to have something on his mind--something heavy. I infer that he wishes to do a little inspecting.”

”Oh!” says I.

You see, along late in the summer, one of our Wall Street men had copped out a whalin' big sh.e.l.l-case contract for us, gayly ignorin' the fact that this was clean out of our line.

How Old Hickory did roast him for it at the time! But when he come to figure out the profits, Mr. Ellins don't do a thing but rustle around, lease all the stray factories in the market, from a canned gas plant in Bayonne to a radiator foundry in Yonkers, fit 'em up with the proper machinery, and set 'em to turnin' out battle pills by the trainload.

”I gather,” says Mr. Ellins, ”that the Lieutenant suspects we are not taking elaborate precautions to safeguard our munition plants from--well, Heaven knows what. So if you could show him around and ease his mind any it would be helpful. At least, it would be a relief to me just now.

Come in and meet him.”

My idea was to chirk him up at the start.

”Howdy, Lieutenant,” says I, extendin' the cordial palm.

But both the Lieutenant's eyes must have been wandering for he don't seem to notice my friendly play.

”Ha-ar-r-r yuh,” he rumbles from somewhere below his collar-b.u.t.ton, and with great effort he manages to focus on me with his good lamp. For a single-barreled look-over, it's a keen one, too--like bein' stabbed with a cheese-tester. But it's soon over, and the next minute he's listenin'

thoughtful while Old Hickory is explainin' how I'm the one who can tow him around the munition shops.

”Torchy,” Mr. Ellins winds up with, shootin' me a meanin' look from under his bushy eyebrows, ”I want you to show the Lieutenant our main works.”

”Eh?” says I, gawpin'. For he knew very well there wasn't any such thing.

His left eyelid does a slow flutter.

”The main works, you understand,” he repeats. ”And see that Lieutenant Fothergill is well taken care of. You will find the limousine waiting.”

”Yes, sir,” says I. ”I'm right behind you.”

Course, if Mr. Robert had been there instead of off honeymoonin', this would have been his job. He'd have towed Cecil to his club, fed him Martinis and vintage stuff until he couldn't have told a 32-inch sh.e.l.l from an ashcan; handed him a smooth spiel about capacity, strain tests, s.h.i.+pping facilities, and so on, and dumped him at his hotel entirely satisfied that all was well, without having been off Fifth Avenue.

The best I can do, though, is to steer him into a flossy Broadway grill, shove him the wine-card with the menu, and tell him to go the limit.

He orders a pot of tea and a combination chop.

”Oh, say, have another guess,” says I. ”What's the matter with that squab caserole and something in a silver ice-bucket?”

”Thank you, no,” says he. ”I--er--my nerves, you know.”

I couldn't deny that he looked it, either. Such a high-strung, jumpy party he is, always glancin' around suspicious. And that wanderin' store eye of his, scoutin' about on its own hook independent of the other, sort of adds to the general sleuthy effect. Kind of weird, too.

But I tries to forget that and get down to business.