On With Torchy

by Sewell Ford

  CHAPTER VII

  COMING IN ON THE DRAW

  Nothin' like bein' a handy man around the shop. Here at the CorrugatedI'm worked in for almost any old thing, from seein' that Mr. Ellinstakes his gout tablets regular, to arrangin' the directors' room forthe annual meeting and when it comes to subbin' for Mr. Robert--say,what do you guess is the latest act he bills me for? Art expert! Yep,A-r-t, with a big A!

  Sounds foolish, don't it? But at that it wa'n't such a bad hunch onhis part. He's a rash promiser, Mr. Robert is; but a shiftyproposition when you try to push a programme on him, for the firstthing you know he's slid from under. I suspicioned some play like thatwas comin' here the other afternoon when Sister Marjorie shows up atthe general offices and asks pouty, "Where's Robert?"

  "On the job," says I. "Session of the general sales agents today, youknow."

  "But he was to meet me at the Broadway entrance half an hour ago," saysshe, "and I've been sitting in the car waiting for him. Call him out,won't you, Torchy?"

  "Won't do any good," says I. "He's booked up for the rest of the day."

  "The idea!" says Marjorie. "And he promised faithfully he would go upwith me to see those pictures! You just tell him I'm here, that's all."

  There's more or less light of battle in them bright brown eyes ofMarjorie's, and that Ellins chin of hers is set some solid. So when Itiptoes in where they're dividin' the map of the world into sellin'areas, and whispers in Mr. Robert's ear that Sister Marjorie is waitin'outside, I adds a word of warnin'.

  "It's a case of pictures, you remember," says I.

  "Oh, the deuce!" says Mr. Robert. "Hang Brooks Bladen and hispaintings! I can't go, positively. Just explain, will you, Torchy?"

  "Sure; but I'd go hoarse over it," says I. "You know Marjorie, and ifyou don't want the meetin' broke up I expect you'd better come out andface the music."

  "Oh, well, then I suppose I must," says he, leadin' the way.

  And Marjorie wa'n't in the mood to stand for any smooth excuses. Shedidn't care if he had forgotten, and she guessed his old businessaffairs could be put off an hour or so. Besides, this meant so much topoor Brooks. His very first exhibit, too. Ferdy couldn't go, either.Another one of his sick headaches. But he had promised to buy apicture, and Marjorie had hoped that Robert would like one of them wellenough to----

  "Oh, if that's all," puts in Mr. Robert, "then tell him I'll take one,too."

  "But you can't buy pictures without seeing them," protests Marjorie."Brooks is too sensitive. He wants appreciation, encouragement, yousee."

  "A lot I could give him," says Mr. Robert. "Why, I know no more aboutthat sort of thing than--well, than----" And just here his eye lightson me. "Oh, I say, though," he goes on, "it would be all right,wouldn't it, if I sent a--er--a commissioner?"

  "I suppose that would do," says Marjorie.

  "Good!" says Mr. Robert. "Torchy, go with Marjorie and look at thatlot. If they're any good, buy one for me."

  "Wha-a-at!" says I. "Me buy a picture?"

  "Full power," says he, startin' back towards the meetin'. "Pick outthe best, and tell Bladen to send me the bill."

  And there we're left, Marjorie and me, lookin' foolish at each other.

  "Well, he's done a duck," says I.

  "If you mean he's got himself out of buying a picture, you'remistaken," says she. "Come along."

  She insists on callin' the bluff, too. Course, I tries to show her,all the way up in the limousine, how punk a performer I'd be at a gamelike that, and how they'd spot me for a bush leaguer the first stab Imade.

  "Not at all," says Marjorie, "if you do as I tell you."

  With that she proceeds to coach me in the art critic business. Thelines wa'n't hard to get, anyway.

  "For some of them," she goes on, "you merely go 'Um-m-m!' under yourbreath, you know, or 'Ah-h-h-h!' to yourself. Then when I give you anudge you may exclaim, 'Fine feeling!' or 'Very daring!' or 'Wonderfultechnic, wonderful!'"

  "Yes; but when must I say which?" says I.

  "It doesn't matter in the least," says Marjorie.

  "And you think just them few remarks," says I, "will pull me through."

  "Enough for an entire exhibit at the National Academy," says she. "Andwhen you decide which you like best, just point it out to Mr. Bladen."

  "Gee!" says I. "Suppose I pick a lemon?"

  "Robert won't know the difference," says she, "and it will serve himright. Besides, poor Brooks needs the encouragement."

  "Kind of a dub beginner with no backing is he?" says I.

  Marjorie describes him different. Accordin' to her, he's a classycomer in the art line, with all kinds of talent up his sleeve and Famebusy just around the corner on a laurel wreath exactly his size. SeemsBrooks was from a good fam'ly that had dropped their bundle somewherealong the road; so this art racket that he'd taken up as a time killerhe'd had to turn into a steady job. He wa'n't paintin' just to keephis brushes soft. He was out to win the kale.

  Between the lines I gathers enough to guess that before she hooked upwith Ferdy, the head-achy one, Marjorie had been some mushy over Brooksboy herself. He'd done a full length of her, it appears, and wasworkin' up quite a portrait trade, when all of a sudden he ups andmarries someone else, a rank outsider.

  "Too bad!" sighs Marjorie. "It has sadly interfered with his career,I'm afraid."

  "Ain't drivin' him to sign work, is it?" says I.

  "Goodness, no!" says Marjorie. "Just the opposite. Of course, Edithwas a poor girl; but her Uncle Jeff is ever so rich. They live withhim, you know. That's the trouble--Uncle Jeff."

  She's a little vague about this Uncle Jeff business; but it helpsexplain why we roll up to a perfectly good marble front detached housejust off Riverside Drive, instead of stoppin' at one of them studiorookeries over on Columbus-ave. And even I'm wise to the fact thatstrugglin' young artists don't have a butler on the door unless there'ssomething like an Uncle Jeff in the fam'ly.

  From the dozen or more cars and taxis hung up along the block I judgethis must be a regular card affair, with tea and sandwich trimmin's.It's a good guess. A maid tows us up two flights, though, before we'reasked to shed anything; and before we lands Marjorie is gaspin' some,for she ain't lost any weight since she collected Ferdy. Quite astudio effect they'd made too, by throwin' a couple of servants' roomsinto one and addin' a big skylight. There was the regulation fishnetdraped around, and some pieces of tin armor and plaster casts, whichproves as well as a court affidavit that here's where the real,sure-fire skookum creative genius holds forth.

  It's a giddy bunch of lady gushers that's got together there too, andthe soulful chatter is bein' put over so fast it sounds likeintermission at a cabaret show. I'm introduced proper to Brooks boyand Wifey; but I'd picked 'em both out at first glimpse. No mistakin'him. He's got on the kind of costume that goes with the fishnet andbrass tea machine,--flowin' tie, velvet coat, baggy trousers, and all,even to the Vandyke beard. It's kind of a pale, mud-colored set offace alfalfa; but, then, Brooks boy is sort of that kind himself--thatis, all but his eyes. They're a wide-set, dreamy, baby-blue pair oflamps, that beams mild and good-natured on everyone.

  But Mrs. Brooks Bladen is got up even more arty than Hubby. Maybe itwa'n't sugar sackin' or furniture burlap, but that's what the stufflooked like. It's gathered jaunty just under her armpits and hangs inlong folds to the floor, with a thick rope of yellow silk knottedcareless at one side with the tassels danglin' below her knee, whilearound her head is a band of tinsel decoration that might have beenpinched off from a Christmas tree. She's a tall, willowy young woman,who waves her bare arms around vivacious when she talks and has lots ofsparkle to her eyes.

  "You dear child!" is her greetin' to Marjorie. "So sweet of you toattempt all those dreadful stairs! No, don't try to talk yet. Weunderstand, don't we, Brooks? Nice you're not sensitive about it, too."

  I caught the glare Marjorie shoots over, and for a minute I figured howthe pictur
e buyin' deal had been queered at the start; but the nextthing I knew Brooks boy is holdin' Marjorie's hand and beamin' gentleon her, and she is showin' all her dimples once more. Say, they'reworth watchin', some of these fluff encounters.

  My act? Ah, say, most of that good dope is all wasted. Nobody seemsexcited over the fact that I've arrived, even Brooks Bladen. As asalesman he ain't a great success, I judge. Don't tout up his stuffany, or try to shove off any seconds or shopworn pieces. He just tellsme to look around, and half apologizes for his line in advance.

  Well, for real hand-painted stuff it was kind of tame. None of thissnowy-mountain-peak or mirror-lake business, such as you see in thedepartment stores. It's just North River scenes; some clear, somesmoky, some lookin' up, some lookin' down, and some just across. Inone he'd done a Port Lee ferryboat pretty fair; but there's anotherthat strikes me harder. It shows a curve in the drive, with one ofthem green motor busses goin' by, the top loaded, and off in thebackground to one side the Palisades loomin' up against a fair-weathersunset, while in the middle you can see clear up to Yonkers. Honest,it's almost as good as some of them things on the insurance calendars,and I'm standin' gawpin' at it when Brooks Bladen and Marjorie driftsalong.

  "Well?" says he, sort of inquirin'.

  "That must be one of the Albany night boats goin' up," says I. "She'llbe turnin' her lights on pretty quick. And it's goin' to be a corkin'evenin' for a river trip. You can tell that by----"

  But just here Marjorie gives me a jab with her elbow.

  "Ow, yes!" says I, rememberin' my lines. "Um-m-m-m-m! Fine feelin'.Very darin' too, very! And when it comes to the tech stuff--why, it'sthere in clusters. Much obliged--er--that is, I guess you can sendthis one. Mr. Robert Ellins. That's right. Charge and send."

  Maybe he wasn't used to makin' such quick sales; for he stares at mesort of puzzled, and when I turns to Marjorie she's all pinked up likea strawberry sundae and is smotherin' a giggle with her mesh purse. Idon't know why, either. Strikes me I'd put it over kind of smooth; butas there seems to be a slip somewhere it's me for the rapid back-away.

  "Thanks, that'll be all to-day," I goes on, "and--and I'll be waitin'downstairs, Marjorie."

  She don't stop me; so I pushes through the mob at the tea table,collects my coat and lid, and slips down to the first floor, where Iwanders into the drawin' room. No arty decorations here. Instead ofpictures and plaster casts, the walls are hung with all kinds ofmounted heads and horns, and the floor is covered with odd-lookin' skinrugs,--tigers, lions, and such.

  I'd been waitin' there sometime, inspectin' the still life menagerie,when all of a sudden in from the hall rolls one of these invalidwheeled chairs with a funny little old bald-headed gent manipulatin'levers. What hair he has left is real white, and most of his face iscovered with a thin growth of close-cropped white whiskers; but underthe frosty shrubb'ry, as well as over all the bare space, he's coloredup as bright as a bottle of maraschino cherries. It's the sort ofsunburn a sandy complexion gets on; but not in a month or a year. Youknow? One of these blond Eskimo tints, that seems to go clear throughthe skin. How he could get it in a wheel chair, though, I couldn'tfigure out. Anyway, there wasn't time. Quick as he sees me he throwsin his reverse gear and comes to a stop between the portieres.

  "Well, young man," he raps out sharp and snappy, "who the particularblazes are you?"

  But, say, I've met too many peevish old parties to let a little jablike that tie up my tongue.

  "Me?" says I, settin' back easy in the armchair. "Oh, I'm a buyerrepresentin' a private collector."

  "Buyer of what?" says he.

  "Art," says I. "Just picked up a small lot,--that one with the Albanynight boat in it, you know."

  He stares like he thought I was batty, and then rolls his chair overcloser. "Do I understand," says he, "that you have been buying apicture--here?"

  "Sure," says I. "Say, ain't you on yet, and you right in the house?Well, you ought to get next."

  "I mean to," says he. "Bladen's stuff, I suppose?"

  "Uh-huh," says I. "And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger;that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope."

  "I see," says he, noddin' his head. "Holding a sale, is he? On one ofthe upper floors?"

  "Top," says I. "Quite a classy little studio joint he's made up there."

  "Oh, he has, has he?" says the old boy, snappin' his eyes. "Well, ofall the confounded--er--young man, ring that bell!"

  Say, how was I goin' to know? I was beginnin' to suspect that thischatty streak of mine wa'n't goin' to turn out lucky for someone; butit's gone too far to hedge. I pushes the button, and in comes thebutler.

  "Tupper," says the old man, glarin' at him shrewd, "you know where thetop-floor studio is, don't you?"

  "Ye-e-es, Sir," says Tapper, almost chokin' over it.

  "You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there," goes on old Grouchy. "Askthem to step down here for a moment at once."

  Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa'n't findin' thearmchair quite so comf'table. "Guess I'll be loafin' along," says I,casual.

  "You'll stay just where you are for the present!" says he, wheelin'himself across the door-way.

  "Oh, well, if you insist," says I.

  He did. And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick andwatches the old sport's white whiskers grow bristly. Then comes theBladens. He waves 'em to a parade rest opposite me.

  "What is it, Uncle Jeff?" says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious. And withthat I begins to piece out the puzzle. This was Uncle Jeff, eh, theone with the bank account?

  "So," he explodes, like openin' a bottle of root beer, "you've goneback to your paint daubing, have you? And you're actually trying tosell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor? Come now, Edith, let'shear you squirm out of that!"

  Considerable fussed, Edith is. No wonder! After one glance at me sheflushes up and begins twistin' the yellow silk cord nervous; butnothin' in the way of a not guilty plea seems to occur to her. As forHubby, he blinks them mild eyes of his a couple of times, and thenstands there placid with both hands in the pockets of his velvet coat,showin' no deep emotion at all.

  "It's so, isn't it?" demands Uncle.

  "Ye-e-es, Uncle Jeff," admits Edith. "But poor Brooks could do nothingelse, you know. If he'd taken a studio outside, you would have wantedto know where he was. And those rooms were not in use. Really, whatelse could he do?"

  "Mean to tell me he couldn't get along without puttering around withthose fool paints and brushes?" snorts Uncle Jeff.

  "It--it's his life work, Uncle Jeff," says Mrs. Bladen.

  "Rubbish!" says the old boy. "In the first place, it isn't work.Might be for a woman, maybe, but not for an able-bodied man. You knowmy sentiments on that point well enough. In the second place, when Iasked you two to come and live with me, there was no longer any needfor him to do that sort of thing. And you understood that too."

  Edith sighs and nods her head.

  "But still he goes on with his sissy paint daubing!" says Uncle.

  "They're not daubs!" flashes back Edith. "Brooks has been doing someperfectly splendid work. Everyone says so."

  "Humph!" says Uncle Jeff. "That's what your silly friends tell you.But it doesn't matter. I won't have him doing it in my house. Youthought, just because I was crippled and couldn't get around or out ofthese confounded four rooms, that you could fool me. But you can't,you see. And now I'm going to give you and Brooks your choice,--eitherhe stops painting, or out you both go. Now which will it be?"

  "Why, Sir," says Brooks, speakin' up prompt but pleasant, "if that isthe way you feel about it, we shall go."

  "Eh?" says Uncle Jeff, squintin' hard at him. "Do you mean it? Wantto leave all this for--for the one mean little room I found you in!"

  "Under your conditions, most certainly, Sir," says Brooks. "I thinkEdith feels as I do. Don't you, Edith?"

  "Ye-e-es, of course," says Mrs. Blade
n. Then, turnin' on Uncle Jeff,"Only I think you are a mean, hard-hearted old man, even if you are myuncle! Oh, you don't know how often I've wanted to tell you sotoo,--always prying into this, asking questions about that, findingfault, forever cross and snappish and suspicious. A waspish, crabbedold wretch, that's what you are! I just hate you! So there!"

  Uncle Jeff winces a little at these last jabs; but he only turns toBrooks and asks quiet, "And I suppose those are your sentiments too?"

  "Edith is a little overwrought," says Brooks. "It's true enough thatyou're not quite an agreeable person to live with. Still, I hardlyfeel that I have treated you just right in this matter. I shouldn'thave deceived you about the studio. When I found that I couldn't bearto give up my work and live like a loafer on your money, I should havetold you so outright. I haven't liked it, Sir, all this dodging andtwisting of the truth. I'm glad it's over. Would you prefer to haveus go tonight or in the morning?"

  "Come now, that's not the point," says Uncle Jeff. "You hate me, too,don't you?"

  "No," says Brooks, "and I'm sure Edith doesn't either."

  "Yes I do, Brooks," breaks in Edith.

  Brooks shrugs his shoulders sort of hopeless.

  "In that case," says he, "we shall leave at once--now. I will sendaround for our traps later. You have been very generous, and I'mafraid I've shown myself up for an ungrateful ass, if not worse.Goodby, Sir."

  He stands there holdin' out his hand, with the old gent starin' hard athim and not movin'. Fin'lly Uncle Jeff breaks the spell.

  "Well, I'll be hanged!" says he. "Bladen, I didn't think it was inyou. I took you for one of the milksop kind; which shows just how biga fool an old fool can be. And Edith is right. I'm a crazy,quarrelsome old wretch. It isn't all rheumatism, either. Some of itis disposition. And don't you go away thinking I've been generous,trying to tie you two young people down this way. It was rankselfishness. But you don't know how hard it comes, being shut up likethis and able only to move around on wheels--after the life I've ledtoo! I suppose I ought to be satisfied. I've had my share--nearlythirty years on the go, in jungle, forest, mountains, all over theglobe. I've hunted big game in every--but you know all about that.And now I suppose I'm worn out, useless. I was trying to get used toit, and having you young folks around has helped a lot. But it hasn'tbeen fair to you--not fair."

  He sort of chokes up at the end, and his lower lip trembles some; butonly for a second. He straightens up once more in his chair. "Youmust try to make allowances, Edith," he goes on. "Don't--don't hatethe old wretch too hard!"

  That got to her, all right. She' wa'n't gush all the way through, anymore'n Uncle Jeff was all crust. Next thing he knew she was givin' himthe fond tackle and sobbin' against his vest.

  "There, there!" says he, pattin' her soothin'. "We all make ourmistakes, old and young; only us old fellows ought to know better."

  "But--but they aren't daubs!" sobs out Edith. "And--and you said theywere, without even seeing them."

  "Just like me," says he. "And I'm no judge, anyway. But perhaps I'dbetter take a look at some of them. How would that be, eh? Couldn'tTupper bring a couple of them down now?"

  "Oh, may he?" says Edith, brightenin' up and turnin' off the sprayer."I have wished that you could see them, you know."

  So Tupper is sent for a couple of paintings, and Brooks chases along tobring down two more. They ranges 'em on chairs, and wheels Uncle Jeffinto a good position. He squints at 'em earnest and tries hard to workup some enthusiasm.

  "Ferryboats, sugar refineries, and the North River," says he. "Alllooks natural enough. I suppose they're well done too; but--but seehere, young man, couldn't you find anything better to paint?"

  "Where?" says Brooks. "You see, I was able to get out onlyoccasionally without----"

  "I see," says Uncle Jeff. "Tied to a cranky old man in a wheel chair.But, by George! I could take you to places worth wasting your painton. Ever heard of Yangarook? There's a pink mountain there that risesup out of a lake, and on still mornings--well, you ought to see it! Ipitched my camp there once for a fortnight. I could find it again.You go in from Boola Bay, up the Zambesi, and through the jungle. Thenthere's the Khula Klaht valley. That's in the Himalayas. Pictures?Why, you could get 'em there!"

  "I've no doubt I could, Sir," says Brooks. "I've dreamed of doingsomething like that some day, too. But what's the use?"

  "Eh?" says Uncle Jeff, almost standin' up in his excitement. "Why not,my boy? I could take you there, chair or no chair. Didn't I go in alitter once, halfway across Africa, when a clumsy Zulu beater let adying rhino gore me in the hip? Yes, and bossed a caravan of sixtymen, and me flat on my back! I'm better able to move now than I wasthen, too. And I'm ready to try it. Another year of this, and I'd beunder the ground. I'm sick of being cooped up. I'm hungry for abreath of mountain air, for a glimpse of the old trails. No use takingmy guns; but you could lug along your painting kit, and Edith couldtake care of both of us. We could start within a week. What do yousay, you two?"

  Brooks he looks over at Edith. "Oh, Uncle Jeff!" says she, her eyessparklin'. "I should just love it!"

  "I could ask for nothing better," says Brooks.

  "Then it's settled," says Uncle Jeff, reachin' out a hand to each of'em. "Hurrah for the long trail! We're off!"

  "Me too," says I, "if that's all."

  "Ah!" says Uncle Jeff. "Our young friend who's at the bottom of thewhole of this. Here, Sir! I'm going to teach you a lesson that willmake you cautious about gossiping with strange old men. Pick up thatleopard skin at your feet."

  "Yes, Sir," says I, holdin' it out to him.

  "No, examine it carefully," says he. "That came from a beast I shot onthe shores of Lake Tanganyika. It's the finest specimen of the kind inmy whole collection. Throw it over your arm, you young scamp, and getalong with you!"

  And they're all grinnin' amiable as I backs out with my mouth open.

  "What the deuce!" says Mr. Robert after lunch next day, as he gazesfirst at a big package a special messenger has just left, and then at anote which comes with it. "'The Palisades at Dusk'--five hundreddollars?"

  "Gee!" I gasps. "Did he sting you that hard?"

  "But it's receipted," says he, "with the compliments of Brooks Bladen.What does that mean?"

  "Means I'm some buyer, I guess," says I. "Souvenir of a little fam'lyreunion I started, that's all. But you ain't the only one. Wait tillyou see what I drew from Uncle Jeff."