RUNG IN WITH THE GOLD SPOONERS

On the level now, what’s a he Cinderella? And if your boss called you a name like that, would you resign, or throw out your chest and strike for a raise? But, then, maybe it was only some of Mr. Robert’s fancy joshin’. Anyway, I’d stand in line waitin’ for a thing like that to happen again.

The way it begun was when I runs across this new girl in the filin’ room and finds her snifflin’ over one of the index cases. She’s bitin’ her lips to keep from doing it and she’s red way up behind her ears; so I knows she’s more mad than sorry. I could guess what’s happened; for I’d just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important.

“Hello, sis!” says I. “Weepin’ over your job so soon?”

“Shut up!” says she.

“Why, how pettish!” says I. “What was Piddie callin’ you down for?”

“What’s that to you?” says she. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Me?” says I. “Why, I’m the Corrugated’s gen’ral grouch dispeller. I’m the official little ray of sunshine. See?” and I bobs my head so she can get a good view of my red thatch.

“Huh!” says she; but she can’t help lettin’ out a grin, so I sees the cure has begun.

“Don’t you mind Piddie,” says I. “He don’t dare tie the can to you without reportin’ higher up. He likes to make a noise like a watchdog, that’s all. Next time you give him the merry chuckle.”

And, honest, I’d done the same if she’d been wall-eyed and toggle-jointed, just for the sake of blockin’ off his little game.

It wa’n’t until a couple of days later, when she shoots over a casual flashlight look as I’m strollin’ past, that I takes any partic’lar notice of what a Daisy Maizie she is. There’s more or less class to her lines, all right, not to mention a pair of rollin’ brown eyes. Course, I sends back the roguish wink, and by the end of the week we was callin’ each other by our pet names.

Not that I’m entered reg’lar as a Percy boy, or that I takes this so serious as to miss any meals; but you know how it is. And what if she was a few years older? She seems to like it when I sing out, “Oh, you Theresa!” at her, and once she mussed up my hair when there wa’n’t anybody lookin’. In fact, I was almost to the point of thinkin’ that I’d been picked as somebody’s honey boy when this Izzy Budheimer shows up as a late entry.

Izzy, he’s a third assistant in the stock department, and on twelve a week he sports one of those striped green overcoats and a plush hat with the bow behind. Maybe he wouldn’t be listed as a home destroyer; but he has a flossy way with him and he goes around a lot. About the second week I sees him and the new girl gettin’ chummier and chummier, and, while she still has a jolly for me now and then, I knows I’m only a side issue. That’s what hurt most. So what fool play must I make but go and plunge on a sixty-cent box of mixed choc’lates for her!

As luck would have it, Mr. Robert spots me comin’ out of the 23d-st. candy shop with the package under my arm. You wouldn’t think he’d notice a little clew like that, or pick me up on it; but he does.

“How now, Torchy?” says he. “Sweets to the sweet, eh?”

“Uh-huh,” says I, and I guess I colors up some.

“What is the fair one’s name?” says he.

“Tessie,” says I.

“Ah!” says he. “Thus were they ever named: Tessie, Juliet, and Helen of Troy. They’re all one. My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be kind!”

Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has a good lunch under his vest and nothin’ heavy on his mind. It don’t mean anything at all.

“Troy!” says I. “Can it! This ain’t for no up-State laundry hand. She comes from Eighth-ave.”

Well, I stows the box away until closin’ time, and then waits around the upper corridor for Tessie to show up. Izzy, he spots me and proceeds to improve the time by givin’ me an earache about what an important party he is, how he expects to be jumped a notch soon, and about how much he makes nights on the outside, followin’ up some checkroom snap or other.

“That’s fine!” says I. “But won’t you be late gettin’ over to Grand-st.?”

Izzy was still explainin’ how long it was since his folks moved to the West Side, and what swell things they had in the parlor, when Tessie floats out with her new spring lid and princess walkin’ suit on. I’m just shovin’ out the peace offerin’ and gettin’ ready to hand over my smoothest josh, when she brushes past like I was part of the wall decoration, squeals, “Oh, Mr. Budheimer!” and begins showin’ Izzy some tickets for the grand annual benefit ball of the Shirtwaist Makers’ Union, and tellin’ him how she was sellin’ ’em for her sister, and what a grand time it was goin’ to be.

“How much?” says Izzy, tryin’ hard to choke it back, but losin’ the struggle.

“Seventy-five for a double ticket,” says Tessie. “That’s the kind you want.”

“Maybe I would yet, if I could get a partner,” says he.

“Ain’t that an awful sad case?” says Tessie. “Nobody’s teased me very hard, either.”

“You’ll go with me, yes?” says Izzy.

“It’s awful sudden,” says she; “but a chance is a chance. Don’t send a cab; the folks in the block might think I was putting on.”

And me? Why, I don’t show on the chart at all! Right under my nose she does it, and don’t even give me a sideways glance.

“Pooh!” says I. “Pooh, pooh!”

“What a cute little fellah!” says Tessie to him as they crowds into the elevator with the rest of the push.

“Say,” says I, making a jump for the grating, “you don’t need to ”

“Next car!” sings out the Johnny Flip, slammin’ the door. Now wa’n’t that rubbin’ it in?

“Coises!” says I. “Deep coises!” and walks down eleven flights with a temperature that would have got me condemned by any boiler inspector in the business. The candy? That goes to one of the pie-faced maids where I lives.

The nerve of that Izzy, though! In the mornin’ he comes around just like nothin’ had happened and wants to know if I’ll sub. for him on his evenin’ job the night he goes to the ball. To show I don’t carry any grouch, I says I will; but he offers only half-pay and makes me agree to split the tips with him.

“I couldn’t afford it, at that,” says he, “only this is a kid session and the graft will be light.”

It’s this checkroom work of his, you know, at one of them swell Fifth-ave. joints where they have an extra night force on call for coming-out parties and dinner dances and the like. So, while him and Tessie is enjoyin’ themselves with the lady shirtwaist makers, I’m standin’ behind the counter wearin’ a braided jacket, givin’ out check coupons, and stowin’ away hats and top-coats for Master Reginald and other buddin’ sports of the younger set. Seems this is the final blowout of Miss Somebody’s afternoon dancin’ class, and no one was allowed inside unless Father had his name printed in bright red ink in the social register.

A hot lot of young gold spooners they was too; some of ’em not as old as me by a couple of years, and swellin’ around in dinky Tuxes and white kids. One of ’em even hands me in a silver-headed cane.

“Careful of that stick, my man,” says he.

“Oh, sure!” says I. “Puppah’d be wild if anything happened to it, wouldn’t he?”

And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the cloakroom between the numbers, all about the awful things they did at prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin’ mornin’ prayers. Almost made your blood run cold not.

When they got to discussin’ the girls, though, and sayin’ how such a one was a “jolly sort,” and others was “bloomin’ rotters,” it made me seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin’ things I couldn’t hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin’ in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.

It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of ’em in the cloakroom, puffin’ away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked bunch.

“Bobby,” says she, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“Run on now, Vee,” says he. “Told you when I asked you to come that I wasn’t a dancing man, y’know.”

“Fudge!” says she, stampin’ her foot. “You think it’s smart to take that pose, don’t you? Well, you wait!”

And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of, the slimmest feet and ankles, reg’lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.

“I haven’t been on the floor for four numbers,” she goes on. “You just wait!”

“You wouldn’t be cad enough to peach on us for smokin’, would you?” says Bobby.

“Wouldn’t I, though!” says she.

That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though.

“Tell ahead,” says he. “Who cares? And let’s see you get any more dances!”

He’s a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin’ at him. I’m so much int’rested in the case that the first thing I know I’ve butted in with advice.

“Ah, be nice, Claude!” says I. “Dance with the young lady. I would if I was you.”

And you can’t guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy. He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to me real majestic and threatenin’.

“You you How dare you?” he splutters out.

“There, there!” says I. “Don’t get bristle-spined over it. I wa’n’t offerin’ any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that I’ll take it back.”

“I I’ll have you dismissed!” he growls.

“Can’t do it, Bobby,” says I. “I’m no reg’lar tip-chaser. I’m here incog. doing it for a lark, y’know. Back to your corner, now! There’s a lady present.”

He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink. “I hope you’re satisfied, Vee,” says he. “You would come in here, though! I can’t help it if the attendants are insolent to you.”

“Pooh!” says Miss Vee. “The young man was only taking my part.”

“So?” sneers Bobbie. “I congratulate you on your new champion.”

“He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!” she fires back at him.

“Does he?” says Bobby. “Then why don’t you get him for a partner?”

“If you don’t ask me for this next waltz, I will,” says she, tossin’ up her chin.

“What a bluff!” says Bobby. “Well, Miss Vee, I’m not going to ask you. Now!”

Say, it was gettin’ more or less personal by that time, and I was wonderin’ just how the young lady was goin’ to back out of the proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know she’s marchin’ straight over to where I was.

“Will you give me this next waltz?” says she.

“Say,” I gasps, “do you mean it?”

“Certainly I do,” says she. “You can dance, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” says I; “but I can do an East Side spiel.”

“Good!” says she. “I know how to do that too. Come on.”

“In a minute,” says I. “Just hold on until I borrow the young gentleman’s evenin’ coat.”

“Wha what’s that?” snorts Bobby.

“You can be usin’ mine for a smokin’ jacket,” says I. “Peel it off now, and let the fancy vest come along too!”

“I I won’t do it!” says Bobbie.

“Oh, yes, you will,” says I, “or else you and me will be mixed up in a rumpus that’ll bring the chaperons and special cops in here on the run,” and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black vest.

“You’re insulting!” says Bobby, gettin’ wild-eyed.

“G’wan!” says I. “It’s a fair swap. I’ll leave it to the young lady.”

And when I’d sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn’t made any wild guess. There’s a twinkle under them long eyelashes that’s as good as a go-ahead signal.

“Of course,” says she. “It was you who suggested him as a partner, anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!”

“I I ” he begins.

“Ah, shuck ’em!” says I, startin’ for him hasty.

I expects it was the prospects of gettin’ rung into a rough and tumble, and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby’s mind so sudden. At any rate, inside of a minute more I’m wearin’ the pearl-gray waistcoat and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the green and gold ballroom with somebody’s pink-costumed heiress hangin’ to my left arm.

“One-two-three; one-two-three Now!” says she, countin’ out the time so I shouldn’t make any false start.

But, say, I didn’t need that. Course, I’m no cotillion leader, and about all the dancin’ I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney Island halls; but who couldn’t keep step to a tune like “Yip-I-Addy” played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was?

Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed maple boards like a pair of summer butterflies, pivotin’ first one way and then the other, dodgin’ in and out among the couples, and givin’ an exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin’ like a cripples’ parade.

First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn’t know whether I was waltzin’, or havin’ a joy ride with some biplane shuffer. I wa’n’t sayin’ a word in the way of language; but Miss Vee keeps up a string of chatter and giggles that’s enough for both. You’d thought to see us, I expect, that we was carryin’ on a real, rapid-fire, smart-set dialogue, when all the while it was only her tellin’ me how the diff’rent parties was actin’ when they first spotted her on the floor with a ringer, and how the chaperons were squintin’ at us through their lorgnettes, tryin’ to make out who I was. And the greatest shock I ever had was when the music stopped and I fell about a mile down through rosy clouds.

“Wait!” says Miss Vee, squeezin’ my arm. “There’ll be an encore. My aunt’s over there, and she’s just wild; but it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re a good sport,” says I, joinin’ in the hand-clappin’ to jog the orchestra into givin’ us a repeat.

And just as they starts up the tune again I happens to glance up into the little visitors’ balcony at the end of the ballroom. Who do you guess I sees watchin’ us bug-eyed and open-mouthed? Why, Izzy Budheimer and Miss Tessie! See? They’ve broke away from the lady shirtwaisters durin’ the supper hour so Izzy can give his new girl a glimpse of what a real swell dance is like. Maybe he planned on stoppin’ in at the cloakroom too, and seein’ if I was holdin’ down the job proper.

Anyway, I can’t blame him for doin’ the open-face act when he discovers me out on the floor with the belle of the ball. But all I has time to do is send him up the chilly stare, and away we go again into another one-two-three dream me and Miss Vee.

“I don’t care what becomes of me,” she hums over my shoulder.

“Me either,” says I.

“Silly boy!” says she. “What’s your name?”

“Just Torchy,” says I, “after my hair.”

“I think curly red hair is cute,” says she.

“I could go hoarse sayin’ things like that about you,” says I.

Maybe it was lucky, too, that this second installment was short, or I might have gone clean mushy; for the way she could look at me out of them big gray eyes of hers was well, it was the real thing in thrills. The wind-up came just as we gets around near the cloakroom door and we stops.

“It was awfully good of you,” says she.

“Gee!” says I. “Why, I could wear out all my old shoes doin’ that, and if ever you need ”

“S-s-sh!” says she. “Here comes my aunt!”

Not waitin’ for any further diagram of the situation, I makes a dash into the cloakroom, where I finds Izzy Budheimer gazin’ puzzled at Bobby, who’s sittin’ tilted back in his shirt sleeves with the braided coat slung on the floor.

“Look here, Torchy!” begins Izzy. “What the ”

“On the job, Izzy, if you want to save it!” says I, wigglin’ out of Master Bobby’s expensive clothes and chuckin’ ’em at him.

“But why what ” says Izzy, tryin’ again.

“Don’t stop to ask fool questions of a busy society man,” says I; “but jump into your uniform, get in your coop there, and prepare to put the timelock on your conversation works. In about a minute there’ll be a delegation of old hens in here lookin’ for a mysterious young gent with incendiary hair who has disappeared. Your cue is to look innocent and not know anything about it. See? If there’s any explainin’ to be done, let Bobby do it.”

“Oh, I say!” groans Bobby, jumpin’ up, and by the time I’ve struck the bottom stair on my way out he’s grabbed his overcoat and is beatin’ it down to find his carriage.

How Miss Vee squared it with Aunty is a puzzle I never expect to find out the answer to; but I’ll risk her. She’s a pink queen, she is, and after that one waltz with her I can look cold-eyed at a row of Tessie girls stretchin’ from here to the Battery!