Torchy, Private Sec. Part 21

I catches my breath at that. "Excuse me if I seem to crash in," says I, "but was that a gust of superheated air, or did you mean it?"

"I should be glad to submit a contract to Miss Everschott on those terms," says he.

"Then leave it to me," says I; "that is, to me and Nelson."

Did we win Ruby? Say, with our descriptions of what three hundred a week might mean in the way of Christmas presents to Uncle Ed, and donations to the poor box, and a few personal frills on the side, we shot that foreign missionary scheme so full of holes it looked like a last year mosquito bar at the attic window.

"But I'm sure I sha'n't like it at all," says Ruby as she signs her name.

I didn't deny that. I knew she was in for a three weeks' drillin' by the roughest stage manager in the business. You know who. But he can deliver the goods, can't he? He makes the green ones act. Look at what he did with Ruby! Only it don't seem like actin' at all. She's just Ruby, in the same puckered waist, her hair mopped around her head in the same silly braid, and that same stary look in her big eyes. But it gets 'em strong. Packed every night!

I meets Nelson here only yesterday, and he was tellin' me. Comin' along some himself, Nelson is. He's opened an office and is biddin' for big jobs.

"I've just landed my first contract," says he.

"Good!" says I. "What's it for?"

"A fifty-foot, twenty-thousand-candle-power sign over the theater," says he, "with Ruby's name in it. She's signed up for another year, you know."

"Well, well!" says I. "Then it's all off with the heathen, eh?"

And Nelson he drifts up the street wearin' a grin.

CHAPTER IX

TORCHY GETS AN INSIDE TIP

There was two commuters, one loaded down with a patent runner sled, the other chewin' a cigar impatient and consultin' his watch; a fat woman with a six-year-old who was teasin' to go see Santa Claus in the window again; a sporty-lookin' old boy with a red tie who was blinkin' googoos out of his puffy eyes; and then there was me, draped in my new near-English top coat and watchin' the swing doors expectant.

So you see they ain't particular who hangs out in these department store vestibules. But I'll bet I had the best excuse! I was waitin' for Vee!

She'd gone in at five-twenty-one, sayin' she'd be only a couple of minutes; so she wa'n't really due for half an hour yet.

The commuter with the sled had just been picked up by Wifey, loaded down with more bundles, and rushed off for the five-forty-something for Somewhere, and a new recruit in the shape of a fish-eyed gink with a double-chin dimple had drifted in, when I has the feelin' that someone has sidled up to me from the far door at the left and is standin'

there. Then comes the timid hail:

"I beg pardon, Sir."

You'd naturally look for somebody special after that, wouldn't you? But what I finds close to my elbow is a wispy little girl with a pinched, high-strung look on her thin face, an amazin' collection of freckles, and a pleadin' look in her big, blue-gray eyes. She's costumed mainly in a s.h.a.ggy tam-o'-shanter that comes down over her ears, and an old plaid cape that must have been some vivid in its color scheme when it was new.

"Eh, Sister?" says I, gawpin' at her.

"Is it true about the work papers, Sir?" says she.

"The which?" says I, not gettin' her for a second. "Oh! Work papers?

Sure! They can't take you on unless you're over fourteen and have been to school so many weeks."

"Not anywhere? Wouldn't they?" she insists.

I shakes my head. "Wouldn't dare," says I. "They'd be fined if they did."

"Th-thank you, Sir," says she. "That's what the man said."

She was winkin' both eyes hard to hold the brine back, and her under lip was trembly; but she was keepin' her chin up brave and steady. She'd turned to go when she swings around.

"Please, Sir," says she, "where does one go when one is tired?"

"Why, Sis," says I sort of quizzin', "what's the matter with home?"

"But if one has no home?" she comes back at me solemn.

"The case being that of a little girl," says I, "she wanders around until she's collected by a cop, turned over to the Children's Society, and committed to some home."

"But I mustn't go there," says she, glancin' around scary. "No, not to a home. Daddums said not to."

"Did, eh?" says I. "Then why don't he---- By the way, just where is Daddums?"

"Taken up," says she.

"You mean pinched?" says I.

"I think so," says she. "Cook says the bobbies came for him. He left word with her that I wasn't to worry, as he'd be let out soon, and I was to stay where I was. Three weeks ago that was, and--and I haven't heard from Daddums since."

"Huh!" says I. "Listens like a case of circ.u.mstances over which---- But where did you pick up that trick of speakin' of coppers as bobbies?"

"I beg pardon, Sir?" says she.

"That tells it," says I. "English, ain't you?"

"London, Sir, Brompton Road," says she.

"Been over long?" says I.

"A matter of three months, Sir," says she.

"And what's the name?" says I.

"Mine?" says she. "Helma Allston. And yours, please, Sir?"

I wa'n't lookin' for her to send it back so prompt. She ain't at all fresh about it, you know: just easy and natural. I don't know when I've run across a youngster with such nice manners.

"Why," says I, "I guess you can call me Torchy."

"Thank you, Mr. Torchy," says she, doin' a little dancin'-school duck.

"And if you don't mind, I'd like to--to stay here for a minute or two while I think what I 'd best---- O-o-o-oh!" She sort of moans out this last panicky and shrinks against the wall.