ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA

Believe me, Belinda, this havin’ a boss who’s apt to stack you up casual against stuff that would worry a secret service corps recruited from seventh sons is a grand little cure for monotonous moments. Just because I happen to get a few easy breaks on my first special details seems to give Old Hickory the merry idea that when he wants someone to do the wizard act, all he has to do is press the button for me. I don’t know whether my wearin’ the khaki uniform helps out the notion or not. I shouldn’t wonder.

Now, here a week or ten days ago, when I leaves Vee and my peaceful little home after a week-end swing, I expects to be shot up to Amesbury, Mass., to inspect a gun-limber factory. Am I? Not at all. By 3 P.M. I’m in Bridgeport, Conn., wanderin’ about sort of aimless, and tryin’ to size up a proposition that I’m about as well qualified to handle as a plumber’s helper called in to tune a pipe organ.

Why was it that some three thousand hands in one of our sub-contractin’ plants was bent on gettin’ stirred up and messy about every so often, in spite of all that had been done to soothe ’em?

Does that listen simple, or excitin’, or even interestin’? It didn’t to me. Specially after I’d given the once-over to this giddy mob of Wops and Hunkies and Sneezowskis.

The office people didn’t know how many brands of Czechs or Magyars or Polacks they had in the shops. What they was real sure of was that a third of the bunch had walked out twice within the last month, and if they quit again, as there was signs of their doin’, we stood to drop about $200,000 in bonuses on shell contracts.

It wasn’t a matter of wage scales, either. Honest, some of them ginks with three z’s in their names was runnin’ up, with over-time and all, pay envelops that averaged as much as twelve a day. Why, some of the women and girls were pullin’ down twenty-five a week. And they couldn’t kick on the workin’ conditions, either. Here was a brand-new concrete plant, clean as a new dish-pan, with half the sides swingin’ glass sashes, and flower beds outside.

“And still they threaten another strike,” says the general manager. “If it comes, we might as well scrap this whole plant and transfer the equipment to Pennsylvania or somewhere else. Unless” here he grins sarcastic “you can find out what ails ’em, Lieutenant. But you are only the third bright young man the Corrugated has sent out to tell us what’s what, you know.”

“Oh, well,” says I. “There’s luck in odd numbers. Cheer up.”

It was after this little chat that I sheds the army costume and wanders out disguised as a horny-handed workingman.

Not that I’d decided to get a job right away. After my last stab I ain’t so strong for this ten-hour cold-lunch trick as I was when I was new to the patriotic sleuthin’ act. Besides, bein’ no linguist, I couldn’t see how workin’ with such a mixed lot was goin’ to get me anywhere. If I could only run across a good ambidextrous interpreter, now, one who could listen in ten languages and talk in six, it might help. And who was it I once knew that had moved to Bridgeport?

I’d been mullin’ on that mystery ever since I struck the town. Just a glimmer, somewhere in the back of my nut, that there had been such a party some time or other. I’ll admit that wasn’t much of a clue to start out trailin’ in a place of this size, but it’s all I had.

I must have walked miles, readin’ the signs on the stores, pushin’ my way through the crowds, and finally droppin’ into a fairly clean-lookin’ restaurant for dinner. Half way through the goulash and noodles, I had this bright thought about consultin’ the ’phone book. The cashier that let me have it eyed me suspicious as I props it up against the sugar bowl and starts in with the A’s.

Ever try readin’ a telephone directory straight through? By the time I’d got through the M’s I’d had to order another cup of coffee and a second piece of lemon pie. At that, the waitress was gettin’ uneasy. She’d just shoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin’ a glass of wooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper.

“Sobowski!” says I, grabbin’ the book.

The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hips dignified and shoots me a haughty glance. “Ring off, young feller,” says she. “You got the wrong number.”

“Not so, Clarice,” says I. “His first name is Anton, and he used to run a shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin’, New York, N. Y.”

“It’s a small world, ain’t it?” says she. “You can pay me or at the desk, just as you like.”

Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write down Anton’s street number.

A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, and with a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But the hottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and made a book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He’d take a nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty to thirty-five the Giants would score more’n three runs against the Cubs’ new pitcher in to-morrow’s game. That kind.

Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about some openin’ he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely I didn’t pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin’ soon after; and if I hadn’t been in the habit of callin’ him Old Sobstuff I’d have forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein’ it there in the book brought back the whole thing.

“Anton Sobowski, saloon,” was the way it was listed. So he was runnin’ a suds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn’t likely he’d know much about labor troubles, but it wouldn’t do any harm to look him up. When I came to trail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain’t within half a block of our branch works.

And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin’ back luxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin’ a pair of baby-blue armlets over his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain’t any brewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he’s boss of, either. It’s the Warsaw Cafe, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtains in the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin’ draped artistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind the mahogany bar.

Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin’ the brushes, and he’s lost a little of the good-natured twinkle from his wide-set eyes. He glances up at me sort of surly when I first steps into the office; but the minute I takes off the straw lid and ducks my head at him, he lets loose a rumbly chuckle.

“It is that Torchy, hey?” says he. “Well, well! It don’t fade any, does it?”

“Not that kind of dye,” says I. “How’s the boy?”

“Me,” says Anton. “Oh, fine like silk. How you like the place, hey?”

I enthused over the Warsaw Cafe; and when he found I was still with the Corrugated, and didn’t want to touch him for any coin, but had just happened to be in town and thought I’d look him up for old times’ sake well, Anton opened up considerable.

“What!” says he. “They send you out? You must be comin’ up?”

“Only private sec. to Mr. Ellins,” says I, “but he chases me around a good deal. We’re busy people these days, you know.”

“The Corrugated Trust! I should say so,” agrees Anton, waggin’ his head earnest. “Big people, big money. I like to have my brother-in-law meet you. Wait.”

Seemed a good deal like wastin’ time, but I spent the whole evenin’ with Anton. I met not only the brother-in-law, but also Mrs. Sobowski, his wife; and another Mrs. Sobowski, an aunt or something; and Miss Anna Sobowski, his niece. Also I saw the three-story Sobowski boardin’-house that Anton conducted on the side; and the Alcazar movie joint, another Sobowski enterprise.

That’s where this Anna party was sellin’ tickets a peachy-cheeked, high-chested young lady with big, rollin’ eyes, and her mud-colored hair waved something wonderful. I was introduced reg’lar and impressive.

“Anna,” says Anton, “take a good look at this young man. He’s a friend of mine. Any time he comes by, pass him in free any time at all. See?”

And Anna, she flashes them high-powered eyes of hers at me kittenish. “Aw ri’,” says she. “I’m on, Mr. Torchy.”

“That girl,” confides Anton to me afterwards, “was eating black bread and cabbage soup in Poland less than three years ago. Now she buys high kid boots, two kinds of leather, at fourteen dollars. And makes goo-goo eyes at all the men. Yes, but never no mistakes with the change. Not Anna.”

All of which was interestin’ enough, but it didn’t seem to help any. You never can tell, though, can you? You see, it was kind of hard, breakin’ away from Anton once he’d started to get folksy and show me what an important party he’d come to be. He wanted me to see the Warsaw when it was really doin’ business, about ten o’clock, after the early picture-show crowds had let out and the meetin’ in the hall overhead was in full swing.

“What sort of meetin’?” I asks, just as a filler.

“Oh, some kind of labor meetin’,” says he. “I d’know. They chin a lot. That’s thirsty work. Good for business, hey?”

“Is it a labor union?” I insists.

Anton shrugs his shoulders.

“You wait,” says he. “Mr. Stukey, he’ll tell you all about it. Yes, an ear-full. He’s a good spender, Stukey. Hires the hall, too.”

Somehow, that listened like it might be a lead. But an hour later, when I’d had a chance to look him over, I was for passin’ Stukey up. For he sure was disappointin’ to view. One of these thin, sallow, dyspeptic parties, with deep lines down either side of his mouth, a bristly, jutty little mustache, and ratty little eyes.

I expect Anton meant well when he brings out strong, in introducin’ me, how I’m connected with the Corrugated Trust. In fact, you might almost gather I was the Corrugated. But it don’t make any hit with Stukey.

“Hah!” says he, glarin’ at me hostile. “A minion.”

“Solid agate yourself,” says I. “Wha’d’ye mean minion?”

“Aren’t you a hireling of the capitalistic class?” demands Stukey.

“Maybe,” says I, “but I ain’t above mixin’ with lower-case minds now and then.”

“Case?” says he. “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps that’s your trouble,” says I.

“Bah!” says he, real peevish.

“Come, come, boys!” says Anton, clappin’ us jovial on the shoulders. “What’s this all about, hey? We are all friends here. Yes? Is it that the meetin’ goes wrong, Mr. Stukey? Tell us, now.”

Stukey shakes his head at him warnin’. “What meetin’?” says he. “Don’t be foolish. What time is it? Ten-twenty! I have an engagement.”

And with that he struts off important.

Anton hunches his shoulders and lets out a grunt.

“He has it bad Stukey,” says he. “It is that Anna. Every night he must walk home with her.”

“She ain’t particular, is she?” I suggests.

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Anton. “Yes, he is older, and not a strong hearty man, like some of these young fellows. But he is educated; oh, like the devil. You should hear him talk once.”

But Stukey had stirred up a stubborn streak in me.

“Is he, though,” says I, “or do you kid yourself?”

I thought that would get a come-back out of Anton. And it does.

“If I am so foolish,” says he, “would I be here, with my name in gold above the door, or back shining shoes in the Corrugated arcade yet? Hey? I will tell you this. Nobodies don’t come and hire my hall from me, fifty a week, in advance.”

“Cash or checks?” I puts in.

“If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?” asks Anton.

“Oh, the first one might be all right,” says I, “and the second; but well, you know your own business, I expect.”

Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishes out a bunch of returned checks. He goes through ’em rapid until he has run across the one he’s lookin’ for.

“Maybe I do,” says he, wavin’ it under my nose triumphant.

Which gives me the glimpse I’d been jockeyin’ for. The name of that bank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this Mortimer J. Stukey; and while I didn’t exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, I may have asked a few leadin’ questions. Who was Stukey, where did he come from, and what was his idea hirin’ halls and so on? While Anton could recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn’t such a keen observer of folks.

“I don’t worry whether he’s a Wilson man or not,” says Anton, “or which movie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should ask Anna.”

“Eh?” says I, sort of eager.

“He tells her a lot he don’t tell me,” says Anton.

“That’s reasonable, too,” says I. “Ask Anna. Say, that ain’t a bad hunch. Much obliged.”

It wasn’t so easy, though, with Stukey on the job, to get near enough to ask Anna anything. When they came in, and Anton invites me to join the fam’ly group in the boardin’-house dinin’-room while the cheese sandwiches and pickles was bein’ passed around, I finds Stukey blockin’ me off scientific.

As Anton had said, he had it bad. Never took his eyes off Anna for a second. I suppose he thought he was registerin’ tender emotions, but it struck me as more of a hungry look than anything else. Miss Sobowski seemed to like it, though.

I expect a real lady’s man wouldn’t have had much trouble cuttin’ in on Stukey and towin’ Anna off into a corner. But that ain’t my strong suit. The best I could do was to wait until the next day, when there was no opposition. Meantime I’d been usin’ the long-distance reckless; so by the time Anna shows up at the Alcazar to open the window for the evenin’ sale, I was primed with a good many more facts about a certain party than I had been the night before. Stukey wasn’t quite such a man of mystery as he had been.

Course, I might have gone straight to Anton; but, somehow, I wanted to try out a few hints on Anna. I couldn’t say just why, either. The line of josh I opens with ain’t a bit subtle. It don’t have to be. Anna was tickled to pieces to be kidded about her feller. She invites me into the box-office, offers me chewin’ gum, and proceeds to get quite frisky.

“Ah, who was tellin’ you that?” says she. “Can’t a girl have a gentleman frien’ without everybody’s askin’ is she engaged? Wotcher think?”

“Tut-tut!” says I. “I suppose, when you two had your heads together so close, he was rehearsin’ one of his speeches to you the kind he makes up in the hall, eh?”

“Mr. Stukey don’t make no speeches there,” says Anna. “He just tells the others what to say. You ought to hear him talk, though. My, sometimes he’s just grand!”

“Urgin’ ’em not to quit work, I suppose?” says I.

“Him?” says Anna. “Not much. He wants ’em to strike, all the time strike, until they own the shops. He’s got no use for rich people. Calls ’em blood-suckers and things like that. Oh, he’s sump’n fierce when he talks about the rich.”

“Is he?” says I. “I wonder why?”

“All the workers get like that,” says Anna. “Mr. Stukey says that pretty soon everybody will join all but the rich blood-suckers, and they’ll be in jail. He was poor himself once. So was I, you know, in Poland. But we got along until the Germans came, and then Ugh! I don’t like to remember.”

“Anton was tellin’ me,” says I. “You lost some of your folks.”

“Lost!” says Anna, a panicky look comin’ into her big eyes. “You call it that? I saw my father shot, my two brothers dragged off to work in the trenches, and my sister oh, I can’t! I can’t say it!”

“Then don’t tell Stukey,” says I, “if you want to keep stringin’ him along.”

“But why?” demands Anna.

“Because,” says I, “the money he’s spendin’ so free around here comes from them the Germans.”

“No, no!” says Anna, whisperin’ husky. “That that’s a lie!”

“Sorry,” says I; “but I got his number straight. He was workin’ for a German insurance company up to 1915, bookkeepin’ at ninety a month. Then he got the chuck. He came near starvin’. It was when he was almost in that he went crawlin’ back to ’em, and they gave him this job. If you don’t believe it’s German money he’s spendin’ ask Anton to show you some of Stukey’s canceled checks.”

“But but he’s English,” protests Anna. “Anyway, his father was.”

“The Huns don’t mind who they buy up,” says I.

She’s still starin’ at me, sort of stunned.

“German money!” she repeats. “Him!”

“Anton will show you the checks,” says I. “He don’t care where they come from, so long as he can cash ’em. But you might hint to him that if another big strike is pulled it’s apt to be a long one, and in that case the movie business will get a crimp put in it. The Warsaw receipts, too. I take it that Stukey’s tryin’ to work the hands up to a point where they’ll vote for ”

“To-night they vote,” breaks in Anna. “In two hours.”

I lets out a whistle. “Zowie!” says I. “Guess I’m a little late. Say, you got a ’phone here. Would it do any good if you called Anton up and ”

“No,” snaps Anna. “He thinks too slow. I must do this myself.”

“You?” says I. “What could you do?”

“I don’t know,” says Anna. “But I must try. And quick. Hey, Marson! You at the door. Come here and sell the tickets. Put an usher in your place.”

With that she bounces down off the tall chair, shoves the substitute into her place, and goes streamin’ out bare-headed. I decides to follow. But she leaves me behind as though I’d been standin’ still.

At the Warsaw I finds Anton smokin’ placid in his little office.

“Seen Anna?” I asks.

“Anna!” says he. “She should be selling tickets at the ”

“She was,” says I; “but just now she’s upstairs in the hall.”

“At the meetin’?” gasps Anton. “Anna? Oh, no!”

“Come, take a look,” says I.

And, for once in his life, Anton got a quick move on. He don’t ask me to follow, but I trails along; and just as we strikes the top stair we hears a rousin’ cheer go up. I suppose any other time we’d been barred out, but there’s nobody to hold us up as we pushes through, for everyone has their eyes glued on the little stage at the far end of the hall.

No wonder. For there, standin’ up before more than three hundred yellin’ men, is this high-colored young woman.

Course, I couldn’t get a word of it, my Polish education havin’ been sadly neglected when I was young. But Anna seems to be tellin’ some sort of story. My guess was that it’s the one she’d hinted at to me about her father and brothers and sister. But this time she seems to be throwin’ in all the details.

There was nothin’ frivolous about Anna’s eyes now. It almost gave me a creepy feelin’ to watch ’em as if she was seein’ things again that she’d like to forget awful things. And she was makin’ those three hundred men see the same things.

All of a sudden she breaks off, covers her face with her hands, and shivers. Then, quick as a flash, she turns and points to Stukey. I caught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin’ a sickly yellow, slumps in his chair. Another second, and she’s turned back to the men out front. She is puttin’ something up to them a question, straight from the shoulder.

The first to make a move is a squatty, thick-necked gent with one eye walled out. He jumps on a chair, shouts a few excited words, waves his long arms, and starts for the stage businesslike. The next thing I knew the riot was on, with Mortimer J. Stukey playin’ the heavy lead and bein’ tossed around like a rat.

It must have been Anton that switched off the lights and sent for the police. I didn’t stop to ask. Bein’ near the door, I felt my way downstairs and made a quick exit. Course, the ceremonies promised to continue interestin’, but somehow this struck me as a swell time for me to quit. So I strolls back to the hotel and goes to bed.

Yes, I was some curious to know how the muss ended, but I didn’t hurry around next mornin’. As a matter of fact, I’d enjoyed the society of the Sobowskis quite a lot durin’ the past two days, and I thought I’d better stay away for a while. They’re a strenuous bunch when they’re stirred up even a kittenish young thing like Anna.

About noon I ’phoned the works, and found that all was serene there, with no signs of a strike yet.

“No, and I got a hunch there won’t be any, either,” says I.

I was plannin’ to linger in Bridgeport another day or so; but when the afternoon paper came out I changed my mind. Accordin’ to the police-court reporter’s account, there’d been some little disturbance in Warsaw Hall the night before. Seems a stranger by the name of Stukey had butted into a meetin’ of the Pulaski Social Club, and had proceeded to get so messy that it had been found necessary to throw him out. Half a dozen witnesses told how rude he’d been, includin’ the well-known citizen, Mr. Anton Sobowski, who owned the premises. The said Stukey had been a bit damaged; but after he’d been patched up at the City Hospital he’d been promised a nice long rest thirty days, to be exact.

So I jumps the next train back to Broadway.

“Ah, Lieutenant!” says Mr. Ellins, glancin’ up from his desk. “Find anything up there?”

“Uh-huh,” says I. “His name was Stukey. Another case of drawin’ his pay from Berlin.”

“Hah!” grunts Old Hickory, bitin’ into his cigar. “The long arm again. But can’t you recommend something?”

“Sure!” says I. “If we could find a pair of gold boots about eighteen buttons high, we ought to send ’em to Anna Sobowski.”