Torchy Part 7

I never says a word, but just twists my toes around the chair legs and looks into my hat. Not that I'm any afraid of girls; but I wa'n't feelin' so much to home there as I do in some places, and I didn't want to make any break. But she wouldn't let it go at that.

"O-o-o-o!" says she again, and as I squints up at her I sees the reg-lar cut-up looks just bubblin' out.

"G'wan!" says I. "I ain't no curiosity."

"Oh, it is Torchy then, isn't it?" says she.

"You don't think this is a wig I'm wearin', do you?" says I. That's what I got to expect with hair like mine. The minute my description's given out everybody's on.

She giggles and says that Brother Robert's been telling her about me.

"I'm Marjorie, you know," says she.

"Well," says I, lookin' her over careful, "you'll do."

I meant it. Mr. Robert's only fair sized; but old man Ellins is a whale, and I was thinkin' of him when I said that Marjorie was up to specifications. She seems to think I've handed out a lump of b.u.t.terscotch, though, and we gets real chatty.

I don't know what kind of fairy yarns Mr. Robert's been tearin' off at home about me; but from the start she treats me like I was one of the fam'ly. And Marjorie was just as nice as she was heavy. She didn't try to carry any dog; but just blazes ahead and spiels out the talk. I get next to the fact that she's just home from one of them swell boardin'

schools, where they pump French and music into young lady plutesses at a dollar a minute, and throw in lessons on how to say "Home, Francois!" to the chaffeur. This was some kind of a vacation Marjorie was havin', and she was doin' her best to make every hour count.

Knowin' all that helped me to keep from bein' so much jarred by her next move. It was a couple of days after, on a Wednesday, and we'd got real well acquainted, when Marjorie spots me as I was headin' back for the office after leavin' some things for the boss.

"Torchy," says she, "where's Robert? What was he doing when you left?"

"Give it up," says I. "And, anyway, I ain't supposed to know."

"I'll bet you do, though," says she. "Couldn't you guess?"

"If I did," says I, "I'd guess that he'd just made a run of ten or twelve and was pus.h.i.+n' up the b.u.t.tons on the string."

"I don't know what that means," says she.

"Well," says I, "it means that maybe he's playin' billiards at the club."

"Oh, darn!" says she, real wicked.

It turns out that Brother Robert has said he'd take sister to the matinee that afternoon, and the date has got clean by him. She wants to go the worst way, too. Mother wasn't handy, Aunty May had the icebag on her head, and there wasn't anyone else within reach. Accordin' to the rules, there'd got to be some one.

"Torchy," says she, "I don't see why you couldn't take me, as well as anyone else."

"Thanks," says I, "but I don't want to earn my release that way. I've got 'em trained down to the office so they'll stand for a lot; but me ringin' in a matinee durin' business hours would sure break the spell."

"Oh, pshaw!" says she. "I can fix that part of it," and off she goes, up to see puppah.

If she'd come back and said the old man was havin' a fit on the floor, I wouldn't have been any surprised. But, say, Marjorie must have a pull accordin' to her weight; for inside of four minutes she comes skippin'

down the front stairs, makin' the gas globes rattle and jigglin' the pictures on the wall.

"It's all right," says she. "Father says you're to telephone Mr. Piddie that you won't be back, and then you're to see that I get to the theater and home again without being kidnapped. I'll be ready in ten minutes."

It was a shame, though, that I missed seein' Piddie when he got the word. All I could hear was a gasp, like he'd been b.u.t.ted just above the belt, and then he hung up the receiver. I expect I'll send him to the nerve repair shop some day.

But you should have seen me and Marjorie sittin' on the broadcloth cus.h.i.+ons and bein' carted down to the theater. I swelled up all I could; but at that I wa'n't much more'n a dot on the landscape. There's times when I feel real chesty and can hear my feet make a noise when I walk; but this wa'n't one of 'em. And when it came to paradin' down the middle row after the usher, with Marjorie puffin' behind, I felt like one of them d.i.n.ky little river tugs towin' a floatin' grain elevator. I was lookin' for the house to let loose a "Ha-ha!" It didn't, though. They expect most anything to drift into them afternoon shows.

"Say, Miss Ellins," says I, after she'd squeezed herself into her place, pinned her feather lid up in front of her, and opened the choc'late creams, "I've been in such a dream I didn't look at the outside boards or get a programme. What's doin'--variety or a tumpy-tump show?"

"Why," says she, "this is Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet.'"

"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Stung again! Who unloaded the tickets on you?"

What d'ye think, though? She'd picked this show out all by herself, put up real money for it--and that with two Injun drammers runnin' right on Broadway! Said she'd seen the same thing half a dozen times before, too.

Aw, say! I couldn't get next to any such batty move as that. And when I thought how this was my first plunge into a two-dollar chair, it made me sore.

"Wake me up when it's all over," says I, and settles back for a real rest.

There's where I hung out the wrong number. That wa'n't any dope drammer at all. Course, Shakespeare don't know how to ring in burnin' flat houses, or mill explosions, or any real thrillers like that; but there's somethin' doin' in his pieces. There was in this one, anyway. It was quite some time before I got any glimmer of what it was all about; but before the first act was over I was sittin' up, all right.

"What do you think of her?" says Marjorie.

"The one with the Maxine Elliott eyes and the gushy voice?" says I. "Oh, I don't call her such a much; but if Romeo wants her as bad as he says he does, I hope it won't be a case of 'My pa won't let me.' But, say, what for did they kill off the only real live one they had, that Mr.

Cuteo? Say, he was all to the good, and it was a shame to have him punctured so quick!"

The parts I liked, though, wa'n't the ones that Marjorie got herself worked up over. It was the balcony scene she'd come for. When they got to that she grips the seat in front and glues her eyes on them two that was swappin' the long, lingerin' breakaway tackles, and every once in awhile she heaves up a sigh like cuttin' out an airbrake.

After it was all over, and most everybody that counted had swallowed knockout drops, Marjorie gives me a sidelight on what's been runnin'

through her head.

"I could do that," says she. "I just know I could!"

"Do what?" says I.

"Why, Juliet's part. I've been studying it for months, ever since our cla.s.s gave it at school. They wouldn't give me a part then; but just you wait! I'll show them!"

"You're jos.h.i.+n'," says I.

Honest, I didn't think she meant it. She didn't say any more about it, and all the way home she was as quiet as a bale of hay.

That was the last I see of Marjorie for near a week. Then, one afternoon as I was goin' through Tinpan Alley on an errand, I sees the Ellins carriage pull up, and out she comes.

Now, say, I knew in a minute that wa'n't any place for Marjorie. The buildin' she goes into is one of them old five-story brownstones, where they sell wigs in the bas.e.m.e.nt, costumes on the first floor, have a theatrical agency on the second, and give voice culture and such stuff above. Among the other signs was one that read, "School of Dramatic Art, Room 9, Fifth Floor."

"Chee!" says I. "You don't suppose Marjorie's got it that bad, do you?"

First off I thinks I'll chase along and forget I'd seen anything at all.

Then I thinks of what Mr. Robert would say if he knew, and I stops.

Sure, I hadn't been called to play any b.u.t.tinsky part; but somehow I didn't feel right about stayin' out, so the first thing I knows I'm trailin' up the stairs. There wa'n't any need to do the sleuth act after Marjorie got started. Anyone on the floor could have heard it; for she was spoutin' the Juliet lines like a carriage caller, and whenever she made a rush to the footlights the floor beams creaked. It was enough to drag a laugh out of a hea.r.s.e driver. And guess what the guy was tellin'

her!

"Great!" says he. "You're almost as good as Mary Anderson was at her best, and as for Marlowe, she can't touch you. Excellent, that last speech! What fire, what expression, what talent! Why, young woman, all you need is a Broadway production to sweep 'em off their feet! I'll arrange it for you. It means money, of course; but after the first cost--fame, nothing but fame!"