A RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE

Have you a shiny little set of garden tools in your home? Have we? Well, I should seed catalogue. Honest to goodness! Here! I can show you a local time-table and my commuter’s ticket. How about that, eh, for me?

And I don’t know now just what it was worked the sudden shift for us the Battous, or our visit to the Robert Ellinses’, or meetin’ up with MacGregor Shinn, the consistent grouch.

It begun with window-boxes. Professor Leon Battou, our official wall decorator and actin’ cook, springs ’em on me timid one day after lunch. It had been some snack, too onion soup sprinkled with croutons and sprayed with grated cheese; calf’s brains au buerre noir; a mixed salad; and a couple of gooseberry tarts with the demi-tasse. Say, I’m gettin’ so I can eat in French, even if I can’t talk it.

And while all that may listen expensive, I have Vee’s word for it that since Madame Battou has been doin’ the marketin’ the high cost of livin’ has been jarred off the roost. I don’t know how accurate Professor Leon is at countin’ up the calories in every meal, but I’m here to announce that he always produces something tasty, with no post-prandial regrets concealed in the bottom of the casserole.

“Professor,” says I, “I’ve been a stranger to this burry brains style of nourishment a long time, but you can ring an encore on that whenever you like.”

He smiles grateful, but shakes his head.

“Ah, Monsieur,” says he, oh, yes, just like that, “but if I had the fresh chives, the the fin herbes ah, then you should see!”

“Well, can’t Madame get what you need at the stores?” says I.

“But at such a price!” says Leon. “And of so discouraging a quality. While, if we had but a few handfuls of good soil in some small boxes by the windows Come, I will show you. Here, and here, where the sun comes in the morning. I could secure them myself if you would not think them unlovely to have in view.”

“How about it, Vee?” I asks. “Are we too proud to grow our soup greens on the premises?”

She says we ain’t, so I tells Leon to breeze ahead with his hangin’ garden. Course, I ain’t lookin’ for anything more’n a box on the ledge. But he’s an ingenious old boy, Leon. With a hammer and saw and a few boxes from the grocery, he builds a rack that fits into one of the front windows; and the first thing I know, he has the space chuckful of shallow trays, and seeds planted in every one. A few days later, and the other window is blocked off similar. Also I get a bill from the florist for two bushels of dirt.

Well, our front windows did look kind of odd, and our view out was pretty well barred off; but he had painted the things up neat, and he did all his waterin’ and fussin’ around early in the mornin’, so we let it ride. When he starts in to use our bedroom windows the same way, though, I has to call him off.

“See here, Professor,” says I, “you ain’t mistakin’ this studio apartment for a New Jersey truck-farm, are you! Besides, we have to keep them windows open at night, and your green stuff is apt to get nipped.”

“Oh, but the night air is bad to breathe, Monsieur,” says he.

“Not for us,” says I. “Anyway, we’re used to it, so I guess you’ll have to lay off this bedroom garden business.”

He takes away the boxes, but it’s plain he’s disappointed. I believe if I’d let him gone on he’d had cabbages growin’ on the mantelpiece, a lettuce bed on the readin’-table, and maybe a potato patch on the fire-escape. I never knew gardenin’ could be made such an indoor sport.

“Poor chap!” says Vee. “He has been telling me what wonderful things he used to raise when he lived in Peronne. Isn’t there some way, Torchy, that we could give him more room?”

“We might rent the roof and glass it in for him,” I suggests, “or get a permit to bridge over the street.”

“Silly!” says she, rumplin’ my red hair reckless.

That was about the time we was havin’ some of that delayed winter weather, and it was touchin’ to see Professor Battou nurse along them pale green shoots that he’d coaxed up in his window-boxes. Then it runs off warm and sunny again, just as we gets this week-end invite from Mr. Robert.

Course, I’d been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow I hadn’t got excited over it. This time it’s different. Vee was goin’ along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had come bouncin’ in on us after a hard winter had something to do with our enthusiasm for gettin’ out of town. You know how it is. For eleven months you’re absolutely sure the city’s the only place to live in, and you feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home. And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get that restless feelin’, and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Vee harder than it did me.

“Goody!” says she, when I tell her we’re expected to go out Saturday noon and stay over until Monday mornin’. “It is real country out there, too, isn’t it?”

“Blamed near an hour away,” says I. “Ought to be, hadn’t it?”

“I hope they have lilac bushes in bloom,” says Vee. “Do you know, Torchy, if I lived in the country, I’d have those if nothing else. Wouldn’t you?”

“I expect so,” says I, “though I ain’t doped out just what I would do in a case like that. It ain’t seemed worth while. But if lilacs are the proper stunt for a swell country place, I’ll bet Mr. Robert’s got ’em.”

By the time we’d been shot out to Harbor Hills station, though, I’d forgot whether it was lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley that Vee was particular about; for Mr. Robert goes along with us, and he’s joshin’ us about our livin’ in a four-and-bath and sportin’ a French chef.

“Really,” says he, “to live up to him you ought to move into a brewer’s palace on Riverside Drive, at least.”

“Oh, Battou would be satisfied if I’d lease Madison Square park for him, so he could raise onions,” says I.

Which reminds Mr. Robert of something.

“Oh, I say!” he goes on. “You must see my garden. I’m rather proud of it, you know.”

“Your garden!” says I, grinnin’. “You don’t mean you’ve been gettin’ the hoe and rake habit, Mr. Robert?”

Honest, that’s the last thing you’d look for from him, for until he got married about the only times he ever strayed from the pavements was when he went yachtin’. But by the way he talks now you’d think farmer was his middle name.

“Now, over there,” says he, after we’ve been picked up at the station by his machine and rolled off three or four miles, “over there I am raising a crop of Italian clover to plow in. That’s a new hedge I’m setting out, too hydrangeas, I think. It takes time to get things in shape, you see.”

“Looks all right to me, as it is,” says I. “You got a front yard big enough to get lost in.”

Also the house ain’t any small shack, with all its dormers and striped awnin’s and deep verandas.

But it’s too nice an afternoon to spend much time inside, and after we’ve found Mrs. Robert, Vee asks to be shown the garden.

“Certainly,” says Mr. Robert. “I will exhibit it myself. That is er by the way, Gertrude, where the deuce is that garden of ours?”

Come to find out, it was Mrs. Robert who was the pie-plant and radish expert. She could tell you which rows was beets and which was corn without lookin’ it up on her chart.

She’d been takin’ a course in landscape-gardenin’, too; and as she pilots us around the grounds, namin’ the different bushes and things, she listens like a nursery pamphlet. And Vee falls for it hard.

“How perfectly splendid,” says she, “to be able to plan things like that, and to know so many shrubs by their long names. But haven’t you anything as common as lilacs!”

Mrs. Robert laughs and shakes her head.

“They were never mentioned in my course, you see,” says she. “But our nearest neighbor has some wonderful lilac bushes. Robert, don’t you think we might walk down the east drive and ask your dear friend Mr. MacGregor Shinn if he’d mind ”

“Decidedly no,” cuts in Mr. Robert. “I’d much prefer not to trouble Mr. Shinn at all.”

“Oh, very well,” says Mrs. Robert. And then, turnin’ to us: “We haven’t been particularly fortunate in our relations with Mr. Shinn; our fault, no doubt.”

But you know Vee. Half an hour later, when we’ve been left to ourselves, she announces:

“Come along, Torchy. I am going to find that east drive.”

“It’s a case of lilacs or bust, eh?” says I. “All right; I’m right behind you. But let’s make it a sleuthy getaway, so they won’t know.”

We let on it was a risky stunt, slippin’ out a side terrace door, dodgin’ past the garage, and finally strikin’ a driveway different from the one we’d come in by. We follows along until we fetches up by some big stone gateposts.

“There they are!” exclaims Vee. “Loads of them. And aren’t they fragrant? Smell, Torchy.”

“I am,” says I, sniffin’ deep. “Don’t you hear me?”

“Yes; and that Mr. Shinn will too, if you’re as noisy as that over it,” says she. “I suppose that is where he lives. Isn’t it the cutest little cottage?”

“It needs paint here and there,” says I.

“I know,” says Vee. “But look at that old Dutch roof with the wide eaves, and the recessed doorway, and the trellises on either side, and that big clump of purple lilacs nestling against the gable end. Oh, and there’s a cunning little pond in the rear, just where it ought to be! I do wish we might go in and walk around a bit.”

“Why not?” says I. “What would it hurt?”

“But that Shinn person,” protests Vee, “might might not ”

“Well, he couldn’t any more’n shoo us off,” says I, “and if he’s nutty enough to do that after a good look at you, then he’s hopeless.”

“You absurd boy!” says Vee, squeezin’ my hand. “Well, anyway, we might venture in a step or two.”

As a matter of fact, there don’t seem to be anyone in sight. You might almost think nobody lived there; for the new grass ain’t been cut, the flower beds are full of dry weeds left over from last fall, and most of the green shutters are closed.

There’s smoke comin’ from the kitchen chimney, though, so we wanders around front, bringin’ up under the big lilac bush. It’s just covered with blossoms a truck-load, I should say; and it did seem a shame, Vee bein’ so strong for ’em, that she couldn’t have one little spray.

“About a quarter a bunch, them would be on Broadway,” says I, diggin’ up some change. “Well, here’s where Neighbor Shinn makes a sale.”

And, before Vee can object, I’ve snapped off the end of a twig.

I’d just dropped the quarter in an envelop and was stickin’ it on the end of the broken branch, when the front door opens, and out dashes this tall gink with the rusty Vandyke and the hectic face. Yep, it’s a lurid map, all right. Some of it might have been from goin’ without a hat in the wind and weather, for his forehead and bald spot are just as high-colored as the rest; but there’s a lot of temper tint, too, lightin’ up the tan, and the deep furrows between the eyes shows it ain’t an uncommon state for him to be in. Quite a husk he is, costumed in a plaid golf suit, and he bores down on us just as gentle as a tornado.

“I say, you!” he calls out. “Stop where you are.”

“Don’t hurry,” says I. “We’ll wait for you.”

“Ye will, wull ye!” he snarls, as he comes stampin’ up in front of us. “Ye’d best. And what have ye there, Miss? Hah! Pickin’ me posies, eh? And trespassin’, too.”

“That’s right,” says I. “Petty larceny and breakin’ and enterin’. I’m the guilty party.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to make such a fuss about,” says Vee, eyin’ him scornful.

“Oh, ho!” says he. “It’s a light matter, I suppose, prowling around private grounds and pilfering? I ought to be taking it as a joke, eh? Don’t ye know, you two, I could have you taken in charge for this?”

“Breeze ahead, then,” says I. “Call the high sheriff. Only let’s not get all foamed up over it, Mr. MacGregor Shinn.”

“Ha!” says he. “Then ye know who I am? Maybe you’re stopping up at the big house?”

“We are guests of Mr. Ellins, your neighbor,” puts in Vee.

“He’s no neighbor of mine,” snaps Shinn. “Not him. His bulldog worries me cat, his roosters wake me up in the morning, and his Dago workmen chatter about all day long. No, I’ll not own such a man as neighbor. Nor will I have his guests stealing my posies.”

“Then take it,” says Vee, throwing the lilac spray on the ground.

“You’ll find a quarter stuck on the bush,” says I. “Sorry, MacGregor, we couldn’t make a trade. The young lady is mighty fond of lilacs.”

“Is she, now?” says Shinn, still scowlin’ at us.

“And she thinks your place here is pretty cute,” I adds.

“It’s a rotten hole,” says he.

“Maybe you’re a poor judge,” says I. “If it was fixed up a bit I should think it might be quite spiffy.”

“What call has an old bachelor to be fixing things up?” he demands. “What do I care how the place looks? And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“Say, you’re a consistent grouch, ain’t you?” says I, givin’ him the grin. “What’s the particular trouble was you toppin’ your drive to-day?”

“Slicin’, mon,” says he. “Hardly a tee shot found the fairway the whole round. And then you two come breaking me bushes.”

“My error,” says I. “But you should have hung out a sign that you was inside chewin’ nails.”

“I was doing nothing of the kind,” says he. “I was waiting for that grinning idiot, Len Hung, to give me me tea.”

“Well, don’t choke over it when you do get it,” says I. “And if you ain’t ready to sic the police on us we’ll be trotting along back.”

“Ye wull not,” says MacGregor; “ye’ll have tea with me.”

It sounds like a threat, and I can see Vee gettin’ ready to object strenuous. So I gives her the nudge.

I expect it’s because I’m so used to Old Hickory’s blowin’ out a fuse that I don’t duck quicker when a gas-bomb disposition begins to sputter around. They don’t mean half of it, these furious fizzers.

Sometimes it’s sciatica, more often a punk digestion, and seldom pure cussedness. If you don’t humor ’em by comin’ back messy yourself, but just jolly ’em along, they’re apt to work out of it. And I’d seen sort of a human flicker in them blue-gray eyes of MacGregor Shinn’s.

“Vee,” says I, “our peevish friend is invitin’ us to take tea with him. Shall we chance it?”

And you know what a good sport Vee is. She lets the curve come into her mouth corners again, both of her cheek dimples show, and she shoots a quizzin’ smile at Mr. Shinn.

“Does he say it real polite?” she asks.

“Na,” says MacGregor. “But there’ll be hot scones and marmalade.”

“M-m-m-m!” says Vee. “Let’s, Torchy.”

It’s an odd finish to an affair that started so scrappy. Not that Shinn reverses himself entirely, or turns from a whiskered golf grump into a stage fairy in spangled skirts. He goes right on with his growlin’ and grumblin’ about the way his Chink cook serves the tea, about havin’ to live in a rotten hole like Harbor Hills, about everything in general. But a great deal of it is just to hear himself talk, I judge.

We had a perfectly good high tea, and them buttered scones with marmalade couldn’t be beat. Also he shows us all over the house, and Vee raves about it.

“Look, Torchy!” says she. “That glimpse of water from the living-room windows. Isn’t that dear? And one could have such a wonderful garden beyond. Such a splendid big fireplace, too. And what huge beams in the ceiling! It’s a very old house, isn’t it, Mr. Shinn?”

“The rascally agent who sold it to me said it was,” says MacGregor, “but I wouldn’t believe a word of his on any subject. ’Did I ask you for an old house, at all?’ I tells him. For what I wanted was just a place where I could live quiet, and maybe have me game of golf when I wanted it. But here I’ve gone off me game; and, besides, the country’s no place to live quiet in. I should be in town, so I should, like any decent white man. I’ve a mind to look up a place at once. Try another scone, young lady.”

So it was long after six before we got away, and the last thing MacGregor does is to load Vee down with a whole armful of lilac blossoms.

I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Robert thought we’d been makin’ a wholesale raid when they saw us comin’ in with the plunder. Mrs. Robert almost turns pale.

“Mercy!” says she. “You don’t mean to say you got all those from our neighbor’s bushes, do you?”

“Uh-huh,” says I. “We’ve been mesmerizin’ MacGregor. He’s as tame a Scot now as you’d want to see.”

They could hardly believe it, and when they heard about our havin’ tea with him they gasped.

“Of all persons!” says Mrs. Robert. “Why, he has been glaring at us for a year, and sending us the most bristling messages. I don’t understand.”

Mr. Robert, though, winks knowin’.

“Some of Torchy’s red-headed diplomacy, I suspect,” says he. “I must engage you to make our peace with MacGregor.”

That’s all we saw of him, though, durin’ our stay. For one thing, we was kept fairly busy. I never knew you could have so much fun in the country. Ever watch a bunch of young ducks waddlin’ about? Say, ain’t they a circus! And them fluffy little chicks squabblin’ over worms. Honest, I near laughed myself sick. Vee was for luggin’ some of ’em home to the apartment. But she was thrilled over ’most everything out there, from the fat robins on the lawn to the new leaves on the trees.

And, believe me, when we gets back to town again, our studio apartment seems cramped and stuffy. We talked over everything we’d seen and done at the Ellinses’.

“That’s really living, isn’t it?” says Vee.

“Why not,” says I, “with a twenty-room house, and grounds half as big as Central Park?”

“I know,” says Vee. “But a little place like Mr. Shinn’s would be large enough for us.”

“I expect it would,” says I. “You don’t really think you’d like to live out there, do you, though?”

“Wouldn’t I!” says Vee, her eyes sparklin’. “I’d love it.”

“What would you do all day alone?” I suggests.

“I’d raise ducks and chickens and flowers,” says Vee. “And Leon could have a garden. Just think!”

Yep I thought. I must have kept awake hours that night, tryin’ not to. And the more I mulled it over Well, in the mornin’ I had a talk with Mr. Robert, after which I got busy with the long-distance ’phone. I didn’t say anything much at lunch about what I’d done, but around three o’clock I calls up the apartment.

“I’m luggin’ home someone to dinner,” says I. “Guess who?”

Vee couldn’t.

“MacGregor the grouch,” says I.

“Really!” says Vee. “How funny!”

“It’s part of the plot,” says I. “Tell the Professor to spread himself on the eatings, and have the rooms all fixed up slick.”

Vee says she will. And she does. MacGregor falls for it, too. You should have seen him after dinner, leanin’ back comfortable in our biggest chair, sippin’ his coffee, and puffin’ one of Old Hickory’s special perfectos that I’d begged for the occasion.

And still I didn’t let on. What I’m after is to have him spring the proposition on me. Just before he’s ready to go, too, he does.

“I say,” says he casual, “this isn’t such a bad hole you have here.”

“Perfectly rotten,” says I.

“Then we might make a trade,” says he. “What?”

“There’s no tellin’,” says I. “You mean a swap, as things stand?”

“That’s it,” says he. “I’m no hand for moving rubbish about.”

“Me either,” says I. “But if you mean business, suppose you drop in to-morrow at the office, about ten-thirty, and talk it over.”

“Very well,” says MacGregor. “I’ll stop in town to-night.”

“Oh, Torchy!” says Vee, after he’s gone. “Do do you suppose he will really?”

“You’re still for it, eh?” says I. “Sure, now?”

“Oh, it would be almost too good to be true,” says she. “That could be made just the dearest place!”

“Yes,” says I; “but my job is to talk MacGregor into lettin’ it go cheap, or else we can’t afford to touch it.”

Well, I can’t claim it was all my smooth work that did the trick, for MacGregor had bought the place at a bargain first off, and now he was anxious to unload. Still, he hadn’t been born north of Glasgow for nothing. But the figures Mr. Robert said would be about right I managed to shade by twenty per cent., and my lump invoice of that old mahogany of ours maybe was a bit generous. Anyway, when I goes home that night I tosses Vee a long envelop.

“What’s this?” says she.

“That’s your chicken permit,” says I. “All aboard for Lilac Lodge! Gee! I wonder should I grow whiskers, livin’ out there?”