On With Torchy Part 20

He meant well, Mr. Robert did; but, say, between you and me, he come blamed near spillin' the beans. Course, I could see by the squint to his eyelids that he's about to make what pa.s.ses with him for a comic openin'.

"I hate to do it, Torchy," says he, "especially on such a fine afternoon as this."

"Go on," says I, "throw the harpoon! Got your yachtin' cap on, ain't you? Well, have I got to sub for you at a directors' meeting or what?"

"Worse than that," says he. "You see, Marjorie and Ferdy are having a veranda tea this afternoon, up at their country house."

"Help!" says I. "But you ain't billin' me for any such----"

"Oh, not exactly that," says he. "They can get along very well without me, and I shall merely 'phone out that Tubby Van Orden has asked me to help try out his new forty-footer. But there remains little Gladys.

I'd promised to bring her out with me when I came."

"Ye-e-e-es?" says I doubtful. "She's a little joker, eh?"

"Why, not at all," says he. "Merely a young school friend of Marjorie's. Used to be in the kindergarten cla.s.s when Marjorie was a senior, and took a great fancy to her, as little girls sometimes do to older ones, you know."

Also it seems little Gladys had been spendin' a night or so with another young friend in town, and someone had to round her up and deliver her at the tea, where her folks would be waitin' for her.

"So I'm to take her by the hand and tow her up by train, am I?" says I.

"I had planned," says Mr. Robert, shakin' his head solemn, "to have you go up in the machine with her, as Marjorie wants to send someone back in it--Miss Vee, by the way. Sure it wouldn't bore you?"

"Z-z-z-ing!" says I. "Say, if it does you'll never hear about it, believe me!"

Mr. Robert chuckles. "Then take good care of little Gladys," says he.

"Won't I, though!" says I. "I'll tell her fairy tales and feed her stick candy all the way up."

Honest, I did blow in a quarter on fancy pink gumdrops as I'm pa.s.sin'

through the arcade; but when I strolls out to the limousine Martin touches his hat so respectful that I gives him a dip into the first bag.

"Got your sailin' orders, ain't you, Martin?" says I. "You know we collect a kid first."

"Oh, yes, Sir," says he. "Madison avenue. I have the number, Sir."

Just like that you know. "I have the number, Sir"--and more business with the cap brim. Awful bore, ain't it, specially right there on Broadway with so many folks to hear?

"Very well," says I, languid. Then it's me lollin' back on the limousine cus.h.i.+ons and starin' haughty at the poor dubs we graze by as they try to cross the street. Gee, but it's some different when you're inside gazin' out, than when you're outside gawpin' in! And even if you don't have the habit reg'lar, but are only there just for the time bein', you're bound to get that chesty feelin' more or less. I always do. About the third block I can look slant-eyed at the cheap skates ridin' in hired taxis and curl the lip of scorn.

I've noticed, though, that when I work up feelin's like that there's bound to be a b.u.mp comin' to me soon. But I wasn't lookin' for this one until it landed. Martin pulls up at the curb, and I hops out, rushes up the steps, and rings the bell.

"Little Miss Gladys ready?" says I to the maid.

She sort of humps her eyebrows and remarks that she'll see. With that she waves me into the reception hall, and pretty soon comes back to report that Miss Gladys will be down in a few minutes. She had the real skirt notion of time, that maid. For more'n a solid half-hour I squirms around on a chair wonderin' what could be happenin' up in the nursery. Then all of a sudden a chatter of goodbys comes from the upper hall, a maid trots down and hands me a suitcase, and then appears this languis.h.i.+n' vision in the zippy French lid and the draped silk wrap.

It's one of these d.i.n.ky brimless affairs, with skyrocket trimmin' on the back, and it fits down over her face like a mush bowl over Baby Brother; but under the rim you could detect some chemical blonde hair and a pair of pink ears ornamented with pearl pendants the size of fruit knife handles. She has a complexion to match, one of the kind that's laid on in layers, with the drugstore red only showing through the whitewash in spots, and the lips touched up brilliant. Believe me, it was some artistic makeup!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Believe me, it was some artistic makeup!]

Course, I frames this up for the friend; so I asks innocent, "Excuse me, but when is little Miss Gladys comin'?"

"Why, I'm Gladys!" comes from between the carmine streaks.

I gawps at her, then at the maid, and then back at the Ziegfeld vision again. "But, see here!" I goes on. "Mr. Robert he says how----"

"Yes, I know," she breaks in. "He 'phoned. The stupid old thing couldn't come himself, and he's sent one of his young men. That's much nicer. Torchy, didn't he say? How odd! But come along. Don't stand there staring. Good-by, Marie. You must do my hair this way again sometime."

And next thing I know I'm helpin' her into the car, while Martin tries to smother a grin. "There you are!" says I, chuckin' her suitcase in after her. "I--I guess I'll ride in front."

"What!" says she. "And leave me to take that long ride all alone?

I'll not do it. Come in here at once, or I'll not go a step! Come!"

No shrinking violet about Gladys, and as I climbs in I shakes loose the last of that kindergarten dope I'd been primed with. I'll admit I was some fussed for awhile too, and I expect I does the dummy act, sittin'

there gazin' into the limousine mirror where she's reflected vivid. I was tryin' to size her up and decide whether she really was one of the chicken ballet, or only a high school imitation. I'm so busy at it that I overlooks the fact that she has the same chance of watchin' me.

"Well?" says she, as we swings into Central Park. "I trust you approve?"

"Eh?" says I, comin' out of the trance. "Oh, I get you now. You're waitin' for the applause. Let's see, are you on at the Winter Garden, or is it the Casino roof?"

"Now don't be rude," says she. "Whatever made you think I'd been on the stage?"

"I was only judgin' by the get-up," says I. "It's fancy, all right."

"Pooh!" says she. "I've merely had my hair done the new way. I think it's perfectly dear too. There's just one little touch, though, that Marie didn't quite get. I wonder if I couldn't--you'll not care if I try, will you?"

"Oh, don't mind me," says I.

She didn't. She'd already yanked out three or four hatpins and has pried off the zippy lid.

"There, hold that, will you?" says she, crowdin' over into the middle of the seat so's to get a good view in the mirror, and beginnin' to revise the scenic effect on her head. Near as I can make out, the hair don't come near enough to meetin' her eyebrows in front or to coverin'

her ears on the side.

Meanwhile she goes on chatty, "I suppose Mother'll be wild again when she sees me like this. She always does make such a row if I do anything different. There was an awful scene the first time I had my hair touched up. Fancy!"

"I was wonderin' if that was the natural tint?" says I.

"Goodness, no!" says Gladys. "It was a horrid brown. And when I used to go to the seminary they made me wear it braided down my back, with a bow on top. I was a sight! The seminary was a stupid place, though.

I was always breaking some of their silly rules; so Mummah sent me to the convent. That was better. Such a jolly lot of girls there, some whose mothers were great actresses. And just think--two of my best chums have gone on the stage since! One of them was married and divorced the very first season too. Now wasn't that thrilling? Mother is furious because she still writes to me. How absurd! And some of the others she won't allow me to invite to the house. But we meet now and then, just the same. There were two in our box party last night, and we had such a ripping lark afterward!"

Gladys was runnin' on as confidential as if she'd known me all her life, interruptin' the flow only when she makes a jab with the powder-puff and uses the eyebrow pencil. And bein' as how I'd been cast for a thinkin' part I sneaks out the bag of gumdrops and tucks one into the off side of my face. The move don't escape her, though.

"Candy?" says she, sniffin'.

"Sorry I can't offer you a cigarette," says I, holdin' out the bag.

"Humph!" says she. "I have smoked them, though. M-m-m-m! Gumdrops!

You dear boy!"

Yes, Gladys and me had a real chummy time of it durin' that hour's drive, and I notice she put away her share of the candy just as enthusiastic as if she'd been a kid in short dresses. As a matter of fact, she acts and talks like any gushy sixteen-year-old. That's about what she is, I discovers; though I wouldn't have guessed it if she hadn't let it out herself.