THE HOUSE OF TORCHY

This trip it was a matter of tanks. No, not the ice-water variety, or the kind that absorbs high-balls. Army tanks the sort that wallows out at daybreak and gives the Hun that chilly feelin’ down his spine.

Accordin’ to my credentials, I was supposed to be inspectin’ ’em for weak spots in the armor or punk work on the gears. And I can tell you now, on the side, that it was 90 per cent. bluff. What the Ordnance Department really wanted to know was whether the work was bein’ speeded up proper, how many men on the shifts, and was the steel comin’ through from the rollin’ mills all right. Get me? Sleuth stuff.

I’d been knockin’ around there for four days, bein’ towed about by the reserve major, who had a face on him like a stuffed owl, a nut full of decimal fractions, and a rubber-stamp mind. Oh, he was on the job, all right. So was everybody else in sight. I could see that after the first day. In fact, I coded in my O. K. the second noon and was plannin’ to slip back home.

But when I hinted as much to the Major he nearly threw a cat-fit. Why, he’d arranged a demonstration at 10 A.M. Thursday, for my special benefit. And there were the tests horse-power, gun-ranges, resistance, and I don’t know what all; technical junk that I savvied about as much as if he’d been tryin’ to show me how to play the Chinese alphabet on a piccolo.

Course, I couldn’t tell him that, nor I didn’t want to break his heart by refusin’. So I agrees to stick around a while longer. But say, I never enjoyed such a poor time doin’ it. For there was just one spot on the map where I was anxious to be for the next few days. That was at home. It was one of the times when I ought to be there too, for Well, I’ll get to that later.

Besides, this fact’ry joint where they were buildin’ the tanks wasn’t any allurin’ spot. I can’t advertise just where it was, either; the government wouldn’t like it. But if there’s any part of Connecticut that’s less interestin’ to loaf around in, I never got stranded there. You run a spur track out into the bare hills for fifteen miles from nowhere, slap up a row of cement barracks, and a few acres of machine shops, string a ten-foot barbed-wire fence around the plant, drape the whole outfit in soft-coal smoke, and you ain’t got any Garden of Eden winter resort. Specially when it’s full of low-brow mechanics who speak in seven different lingos and subsist mainly on cut plug and garlic.

After I’d checked up all the dope I’d come for, and durin’ the times when the Major was out plannin’ more inspection stunts for me, I was left to drill around by myself. Hours and hours. And all there was to read in the Major’s office was engineerin’ magazines and the hist’ry of Essex County, Mass. Havin’ been fed up on mechanics, I tackled the hist’ry. One chapter had a corkin’ good Indian scalpin’ story in it, about a Mrs. Hannah Dustin; and say, as a short-order hair remover she was a lady champ, all right. But the rest of the book wasn’t so thrillin’.

So I tried chattin’ with the Major’s secretary, a Lieutenant Barnes. The Major must have picked him out on account of that serious face of his. First off, I had an idea Barnes was sad just because he was detailed at this soggy place instead of bein’ sent to France. I asks him sort of sympathizin’ how long he’s been here. He says three months.

“In this hole?” says I. “How do you keep from goin’ bug-house?”

“I don’t mind it,” says he. “I find the work quite interesting.”

“But evenin’s?” I suggests.

“I write to my wife,” says he.

I wanted to ask him what about, but I choked it back. “Oh, yes,” says I. “Of course. Any youngsters at home!”

“No,” says he prompt. “Life is complicated enough without children.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says I. “They’d sort of help, I should think.”

He shakes his head and glares gloomy out of the window. “I cannot agree with you,” says he. “Perhaps you have never seriously considered just what it means to be a parent.”

“Maybe not,” says I, “but ”

“Few seem to do so,” he breaks in. “Just think: one begins by putting two lives in jeopardy.”

“Let’s pass over that,” I says hasty.

He sighs. “If we only could,” says he. “And then Well, there you are saddled with the task of caring for another human being, of keeping him in good health, of molding his character, of planning and directing his whole career, from boyhood on.”

“Some are girls, though,” I suggests.

He shudders. “So much the worse,” says he. “Girl babies are such delicate creatures; all babies are, in fact. Do you know the average rate of infant mortality in this country? Just think of the hundreds of thousands who do not survive the teething period. Imagine the anxieties, the sleepless nights, the sad little tragedies which come to so many homes. Then the epidemic diseases measles, scarlet fever, meningitis. Let them survive all those, and what has the parent to face but the battle with other plagues, mental and moral? Think of the number of weak-minded children there are in the world; of perverts, criminally inclined. It is staggering. But if you escape all that, if your children are well and normal, as some are, then you must consider this: Suppose anything should happen to either or both of the parents? What of the little boy or girl? You have seen orphan asylums, I suppose. Have you ever stopped to ”

And then, just as he had me feelin’ like I ought to be led out and shot at sunrise, the old Major comes bustlin’ in fussy. I could have fallen on his neck.

“All ready!” says he. “Now I’ll show you a fighting machine, young man, that is the last word in mechanical genius.”

“You can show me anything, Major,” says I, “so long as it ain’t a morgue or a State’s prison.”

And he sure had some boiler-plate bus out there champin’ at the bit. It looked just as frisky as the Flatiron Buildin’, squattin’ in the middle of the field, this young Fort Slocum with the caterpillar wheels sunk in the mud.

“Stuck, ain’t she?” I asked the Major.

“We shall see,” says he, noddin’ to one of his staff, who proceeds to do a semaphore act with his arms.

An answerin’ snort comes from inside the thing, a purry sort of rumble that grows bigger and bigger, and next I knew, it starts wallowin’ right at us. It keeps comin’ and comin’, gettin’ up speed all the while, and if there hadn’t been a four-foot stone wall between us I’d been lookin’ for a tall tree. I thought it would turn when it came to the wall. But it don’t. It gives a lurch, like a cow playin’ leap-frog, and over she comes, still pointed our way.

“Hey, Major!” I calls out above the roar. “Can they see where they’re goin’ in there? Hadn’t we better give ’em room?”

“Don’t move, please,” says he.

“Just as you say,” says I; “only I ain’t strong for bein’ rolled into pie-crust.”

“There’s no danger,” says he. “I merely wish you to see how There! Look!”

And say, within twenty feet of us the blamed thing rears up on its haunches, its ugly nose high as a house above us, and, while I’m still holdin’ my breath, it pivots on its tail and lumbers back, leavin’ a path that looks like it had been paved with Belgian blocks.

Course, that’s only part of the performance. We watched it wallow into deep ditches and out, splash through a brook, and mow down trees more’n a foot thick. And all the time the crew were pokin’ out wicked-lookin’ guns, big and little, that swung round and hunted us out like so many murderous eyes.

“Cute little beast, ain’t it?” says I. “You got it trained so it’ll almost do a waltz. If I was to pick my position, though, I think I’d rather be on the inside lookin’ out.”

“Very well,” says the Major. “You shall have a ride in it.”

“Excuse me,” says I. “I was only foolin’. Honest, Major, I ain’t yearnin’.”

“Telegram for you,” breaks in Barnes, the secretary.

“Oh!” says I, a bit gaspy, as I rips open the envelop.

It’s the one I’d been espectin’. All it says is: “Come at once. VEE.” But I knew what that meant.

“Sorry, Major,” says I, “but I’ll have to pass up the rest of the show. I I’m called back.”

“Ah! To headquarters?” says he.

“No,” says I. “Home.”

He shakes his head and frowns. “That is a word which no officer is supposed to have in his vocabulary,” says he.

“It’s in mine, all right,” says I. “But then, I’m not much of an army officer, anyway. I’m mostly a camouflaged private sec. Besides, this ain’t any ordinary call. It’s a domestic S. O. S. that I’ve been sort of lookin’ for.”

“I understand,” says he. “The the first?”

I nods. Then I asks: “What’s the quickest way across to Long Island?”

“There isn’t any quick way,” says he, “unless you have wings. You can’t even catch the branch line local that connects with the New York express now. There’ll be one down at 8:36 to-morrow morning, though.”

“Wha-a-at!” says I, gawpin’ at him. “How about gettin’ a machine and shootin’ down to the junction?”

“My car is the only one here,” says he, “and that is out of commission to-day valves being ground.”

“But look,” says I; “you got three or four of those motor-cycles with a bath-tub tacked on the side. Couldn’t you let one of your sergeants ”

“Strictly against orders,” says he, “except for military purposes.”

“Ah, stretch it, Major,” I goes on. “Have a heart. Just think! I want to get there to-night. Got to!”

“Impossible,” says he.

“But listen ” I keeps on.

Well, it’s no use rehearsin’ the swell arguments I put up. I said he had a rubber-stamp mind, didn’t I? And I made about as much headway talkin’ to him as I would if I’d been assaultin’ that tank with a tack-hammer. He couldn’t see any difference between havin’ charge of a string of machine shops in Connecticut and commandin’ a regiment in the front-line trenches. Besides, he didn’t approve of junior officers bein’ married. Not durin’ war-time, anyway.

And the worst of it was, I couldn’t tell him just the particular kind of ossified old pinhead I thought he was. All I could do was grind my teeth, say “Yes, sir,” and salute respectful.

Also there was that undertaker-faced secretary standin’ by with his ear out. The prospect of sittin’ around watchin’ him for the rest of the day wasn’t fascinatin’. No; I’d had about all of Barnes I could stand. A few more of his cheerin’ observations, and I’d want to jam his head into his typewriter and then tread on the keys. Nor I wasn’t goin’ to be fed on any more cog-wheel statistics by the Major, either.

All I could keep on my mind then was this one thing: How could I get home? Looked like I was up against it, too. The nearest town was twelve miles off, and the main-line junction was some thirty-odd miles beyond that. Too far for an afternoon hike. But I couldn’t just sit around and wait, or pace up and down inside the barbed-wire fence like an enemy alien that had been pastured out. So I wanders through the gate and down a road. I didn’t know where it led, or care. Maybe I had a vague idea a car would come along. But none did.

I must have been trampin’ near an hour, with my chin down and my fists jammed into my overcoat pockets, when I catches a glimpse, out of the tail of my eye, of something yellow dodgin’ behind a clump of cedars at one side of the road. First off I thought it might be a cow, as there was a farm-house a little ways ahead. Then it struck me no cow would move as quick as that, or have such a bright yellow hide. So I turns and makes straight for the cedars.

It was a thick, bushy clump. I climbed the stone wall and walked all the way round. Nothin’ in sight. Seemed as if I could see branches movin’ in there, though, and hear a sound like heavy breathin’. Course, it might be a deer, or a fox. Then I remembered I had half a bag of peanuts somewhere about me. Maybe I could toll the thing out with ’em. I was just fishin’ in my pockets when from the middle of the cedars comes this disgusted protest.

“Oh, I say, old man,” says a voice. “No shooting, please.”

And with that out steps a clean-cut, cheerful-faced young gent in a leather coat, goggled helmet, and spiral puttees. No wonder I stood starin’. Not that I hadn’t seen plenty like him before, but I didn’t know the woods was so full of ’em.

“You were out looking for me, I suppose?” he goes on.

“Depends on who you are,” says I.

“Oh, we might as well come down to cases,” says he. “I’m the enemy.”

“You don’t look it,” says I, grinnin’.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Fact, old man,” says he. “I’m the one you were sent to watch for Lieutenant Donald Allen, 26th Flying Corps Division, Squadron B.”

“Pleased to meet you,” says I.

“No doubt,” says he. “Have a cigarette?” We lights up from the same match. “But say,” he adds, “it was just a piece of tough luck, your catching me in this fix.”

“Oh, I ain’t so sure,” says I.

“Of course,” he says, “it won’t go with the C. O. But really, now, what are you going to do when your observer insists that he’s dying? I couldn’t tell. Perhaps he was. Right in the middle of a perfect flight, too, the chump! Motor working sweet, air as smooth as silk, and no cross currents to speak of. But, with him howling about this awful pain in his tummy, what else could I do? Had to come down and Well, here we are. I’m behind the lines, I suppose, and you’ll report my surrender.”

“Then what?” I asks.

“Oh,” says Allen, “as soon as I persuade this trolley-car aviator, Martin, that he isn’t dead, I shall load him into the old bus and cart him back to Mineola.”

“Wha-a-t!” says I. “You you’re goin’ back to Mineola to-night?”

“If Martin can forget his tummy,” says he. “How I’ll be guyed! Go to the foot of the eligible list too, and probably miss out on being sent over with my division. Oh, well!”

I was beginning to dope out the mystery. More’n that, I had my fingers on the tail feathers of a hunch.

“Why not leave Martin here?” I suggests. “Couldn’t you show up in time?”

“It wouldn’t count,” says the Lieutenant. “You must have an observer all the way.”

“How about me subbin’ in?” says I.

“You?” says he. “Why, you’re on the other side.”

“That’s where you’re mixed,” says I. “I’m on the wrong side of Long Island Sound, that’s all.”

“Why,” says he, “weren’t you sent out to ”

“No,” I breaks in; “I’m no spotter. I’m on special detail from the Ordnance Department. And a mighty punk detail at that, if you ask me. The party who’s sleuthin’ for you, I expect, is the one I saw back at the plant, moonin’ around with a pair of field glasses strapped to him. You ain’t captured yet; not by me, anyway.”

“Honest?” says he. “Why, then then ”

“Uh-huh!” says I. “And if you can make it back to Mineola with a perfectly good passenger in the extra seat you’ll qualify for scout work and most likely be over pluggin’ Huns within a month or so. That won’t tickle you a bit more’n it will me to get to Long Island to-night, for ”

Well, then I tells him about Vee, and everything.

“By George!” says he. “You’re all right, Lieutenant er ”

“Ah, between friends, Donald,” says I, “it’s Torchy.”

At which we links arms chummy and goes marchin’ close order down to the farm-house to see how this Martin party was gettin’ on. We finds him rolled up in quilts on an old sofa that the folks had shoved up in front of the stove a slim, nervous-lookin’ young gink with sandy hair and a peaked nose.

“Well, how about you?” asks Allen.

Martin he only moans and reaches for a warm flat-iron that he’d been holdin’ against his stomach.

“Still dying, eh?” says Allen. “Why didn’t you report sick this morning, instead of letting them send you up with me?”

“I I was all right then,” whines Martin. “It it must have been the altitude got me. I I’d never been that high before, you know.”

“Bah!” says the Lieutenant. “Not over thirty-five hundred at any time. How do you expect me to take you back on the hundred-foot level? You’ll make a fine observer, you will!”

“I’ve had enough observing,” says Martin. “I I’m going to get transferred to the mechanical department.”

“Oh, are you?” says Allen. “Then you’ll be just as satisfied to make the trip back by rail.”

Martin nods.

“And you won’t be needing your helmet and things, eh?” goes on the Lieutenant. “I’ll take those along, then,” and he winks at me.

All of a sudden, though, the sparkles fade out of his eyes. “Jinxed again!” says he. “There’d be no blessed map to hand in.”

“Eh?” says I. “Map of what!”

He explains jerky. This scoutin’ stunt of his was to locate the tank works and get close enough for an observer to draw a plan of it all of which he’d done, only by then Martin had got past the drawin’ stage.

“So it’s no use going back to-night.”

“Ain’t it?” says I. “Say, if a map of that smoky hole is all you need, I guess I can produce that easy enough.”

“Can you?” he asks.

“Why not?” says I. “Ain’t I been cooped up there for nearly a week? I can put in a bird’s-eye view of the Major in command; one of his secretary, too, if you like. Gimme some paper.”

And inside of five minutes I’d sketched out a diagram of the buildin’s and the whole outfit. Then we poked Martin up long enough for him to sign it.

“Fine work!” says Donald. “That earns you a hop, all right. Now buckle yourself into that cloud costume and I’ll show you how a 110-horse-power crow would go from here to the middle of Long Island if he was in a hurry.”

“You can’t make it any too speedy for me,” says I, slippin’ into the sheepskin jacket.

“Ever been up before?” he asks.

“Only once in a hydro,” says I; “but I ain’t missed any chances.”

“That’s the spirit!” says he. “Come along. The old bus is anchored down the field a ways.”

I couldn’t hardly believe I was actually goin’ to pull it off until he’d got the motor started and we went skimmin’ along the ground. But as soon as we shook off the State of Connecticut and began climbin’ up over a strip of woods, I settles back in the little cockpit, buttons the wind-shield over my mouth, and sighs contented.

Allen and I didn’t exchange much chat. You don’t with an engine of that size roarin’ a few feet in front of you and your ears buttoned down by three or four layers of wool and leather. Once he points out ahead and tries to shout something, I don’t know what. But I nods and waves encouragin’. Later he points down and grins. I grins back.

Next thing I knew, he’s shut off the motor, and I gets a glimpse of the whole of Long Island behavin’ odd. Seems as if it’s swellin’ and widenin’ out, like one of these freaky toy balloons you blow up. It didn’t seem as if we was divin’ down more like the map was rushin’ up to meet us. Pretty soon I could make out a big open space with a lot of squatty buildin’s at one end, and in a couple of minutes more the machine was rollin’ along on its wheels and we taxied graceful up towards the hangars.

It was just gettin’ dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards I walked I felt like I was dressed in a divin’ suit with a pair of lead boots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, and heard him say something about Observer Martin wantin’ to report sick. Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past’ em, and leads me through a back gate.

“I think we’ve put it over, old man,” says he, givin’ me the cordial grip. “I can’t tell you what a good turn you’ve done me.”

“It’s fifty-fifty,” says I. “Where do I hit a station?”

“You take this trolley that’s coming,” says he. “That junk you have on you can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I I trust you’ll find things all right at home.”

“Thanks,” says I. “Hope you’ll have the same luck yourself some day.”

“Oh, perhaps,” says he, shakin’ his head doubtful. “If I ever get back. But not until I’m past thirty, anyway.”

“Why so late?” asks I.

“What would get my goat,” says he, “would be the risk of breakin’ into the grandfather class before I got ready.”

“Gee!” I gasps. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

So, with this new idea, and the cheerin’ views Barnes had pumped into me, I has plenty to chew over durin’ the next hour or so that I’m speedin’ towards home. I expect that accounts some for the long face I must have been wearin’ when I finally dashes through the front gate of the Lilacs and am let into the house by Leon Battou, the little old Frenchman who cooks and buttles for us.

“Ah, mon Dieu!” says Leon, throwin’ up his hands and starin’ at me bug-eyed. “Monsieur!”

“Go on,” says I. “Tell me the worst. What is it?”

“But no, M’sieur,” says he. “It is only that M’sieur appears in so strange attire.”

“Oh! These?” says I. “Never mind my costume, Leon. What about Vee?”

“Ah!” says he, his eyes beamin’ once more and his hands washin’ each other. “Madame is excellent. She herself will tell you. Come!”

Upstairs I went, two steps at a time.

“S-s-sh!” says the nurse, meetin’ me at the door.

But I brushes past her, and the next minute I’m over by the bed and Vee is smilin’ up at me. It’s only the ghost of a smile, but it means a lot to me. She slips one of her hands into mine.

“Torchy,” she whispers, “did you drop down out of of the air?”

“That was about it,” says I. “I got here, though. Are you all right, girlie?”

She nods and gives me another of them sketchy, happy smiles.

“And how about the the ” I starts to ask.

She glances towards the corner where the nurse is bendin’ over a pink and white basket. “He’s splendid,” she whispers.

“He?” says I. “Then then it’s a boy?”

She gives my hand a little squeeze.

And ten minutes later, when I’m shooed out, I’m feelin’ so chesty and happy that I’m tingly all over.

Down in the livin’-room Leon is waitin’ for me, wearin’ a broad grin. He greets me with his hand out. And then, somehow, because he’s so different, I expect, I remembers Barnes. I was wonderin’ if Leon was just puttin’ on.

“Well,” says I, “how about it?”

“Ah, Monsieur!” says he, givin’ me the hearty grip. “I make to you my best congratulations.”

“Then you don’t feel,” says I, “that bein’ a parent is kind of a sad and solemn business?”

“Sad!” says he. “Non, non! It is the grand joy of life. It is when you have the best right to be proud and glad, for to you has come la bonne chance. Yes, la bonne chance!”

And say, there’s no mistakin’ that Leon means every word of it, French and all.

“Thanks, Leon,” says I. “You ought to know. You’ve been through it yourself. I’ll bet you wouldn’t even feel bad at being a grandfather. No? Well, I guess I’ll follow through on that line. Maybe I don’t deserve so much luck, but I’m takin’ it just as though I did. And say, Leon, let’s us go out in the back yard and give three cheers for the son and heir of the house of Torchy.”