by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER III
A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY
And here all along I'd been kiddin' myself that I was a perfectly goodprivate sec. Also I had an idea the Corrugated Trust was one of the mainpiers that kept New York from slumpin' into the North River, and thatthe boss, Old Hickory Ellins, was sort of a human skyscraper who loomedup as imposin' in the financial foreground as the Metropolitan Towerdoes on the picture post-cards that ten-day trippers mail to the folksback home.
Not that I'd been workin' up any extra chest measure since I've had aninside desk and had connected with a few shares of our preferred stock;I always did feel more or less that way about our concern. And thecloser I got to things, seein' how wide our investments was scatteredand how many big deals we stood behind, the surer I was that we wasimportant people.
And then, in trickles this smooth-haired young gent with the broad _a_'sand the full set of _the dansant_ manners, to show me where I'm wrongon all counts. He'd succeeded in convincin' Vincent-on-the-gate thatnobody around the shop would do but Mr. Ellins himself, so here was OldHickory standin' in the door of his private office with the card in hishand and starin' puzzled at this immaculate symphony in browns.
"Eh?" says he. "You're from Runyon, are you? Well, I wired him to stopoff on his way through and have luncheon with me at the Union League.Know anything about that, do you?"
"Mr. Runyon regrets very much," says the young gent, "that he will beunable to accept your kind invitation. He is on his way to Newport, youknow, and----"
"Yes, I understand all that," breaks in Old Hickory. "Daughter'swedding. But that isn't until next week, and while he was in town Ithought we might have a little chat and settle a few things."
"Quite so," says the symphony. "Precisely why he sent me up, sir--totalk over anything you might care to discuss."
"With you!" snorts Old Hickory. "Who the brocaded buckboards are you?"
"Mr. Runyon's secretary, sir," says the young gent. "Bixby's the name,sir, as you will see by the card, and----"
"Ha!" growls old Hickory. "So that's Marc Runyon's answer to me, is it?Sends his secretary! Very well; you may talk with _my_ secretary.Torchy!"
"Right here!" says I, slidin' to the front.
"Take this person somewhere," says Mr. Ellins, jerkin' his thumb atBixby; "instruct him what to tell his master about how we regard thatterminal hold-up; then dust him off carefully and lead him to theelevator."
"Got you!" says I, salutin'.
You might think that would have jolted Mr. Bixby. But no. He gets thedoor shut in his face without even blinkin' or gettin' pink under theeyes. Don't even indulge in any shoulder shrugs or other signs ofmuffled emotion. He just turns to me calm and remarks businesslike:
"At your service, sir."
Now, say, this lubricated diplomacy act ain't my long suit as a generalthing, but I couldn't figure a percentage in puttin' over any more roughstuff on Bixby. It rolled off him too easy. Course, it might be allright for Mr. Ellins to get messy or blow a gasket if he wanted to; butI couldn't see that it was gettin' us anywhere. He hadn't planned thisluncheon affair just for the sake of being sociable--I knew that much.The big idea was to get next to Marcus T. Runyon and thresh out acertain proposition on a face-to-face basis. And if he chucked thatoverboard because of a whim, we stood to lose.
It was up to me now, though. Maybe I couldn't be as smooth as this Bixbyparty, but I could make a stab along that line. It would be goodpractice, anyhow. So I tows him over to my corner, and arranges him easyin an armchair.
"As between private secs, now," says I, "what's puttin' up the bars onthis get-together motion, eh?"
Well, considerin' that Bixby is English and don't understand theAmerican language very well, we got along fine. Once or twice, there, Ithought I should have to call in an interpreter; but by bein' careful tostate things simple, and by goin' over some of the points two or threetimes slow, we managed to make out what each other meant.
It seems that Marcus T. is more or less of a frail and tender party.Dashin' out for a Union League luncheon, fillin' himself up on _pouleten casserole_ and such truck, not to mention Martinis and demi-tassesand brunette perfectos, was clean out of the question.
"My word!" says Bixby, rollin' his eyes. "His physician would neverallow it, you know."
"Suppose he took a chance and didn't tell the doc?" I suggests.
"Impossible," says Bixby. "He is with him constantly--travels with him,you understand."
I didn't get it all at first, but I sopped it up gradual. Marcus T.wasn't takin' any casual flit from his Palm Beach winter home to hisNewport summer place. No jumpin' into a common Pullman for him, joinin'the smokin'-room bunch, and scrabblin' for his meals in the diner.Hardly.
He was travelin' in his private car, with his private secretary, hisprivate physician, his trained nurse, his private chef, and most likely,his private bootblack. And he was strictly under his doctor's orders. Hewasn't even goin' to have a peek at Broadway or Fifth Avenue; for,although a suite had been engaged for him at the Plutoria, the Doc hadruled against it only that mornin'. No; he had to stay in the privatecar, that had been run on a special sidin' over in the Pennsylvaniayards.
"So you see," says Bixby, spreadin' out his varnished finger-nailshelpless. "And yet, I am sure he would very much like to have a chatwith his old friend Mr. Ellins."
I had all I could do to choke back a haw-haw. His old friend, eh? Oh, Iexpect they might be called friends, in a way. They hadn't actuallystuck any knives into each other. And 'way back, when they was bothoperatin' in Chicago, I understand they was together a good deal. Butsince---- Well, maybe at a circus you've seen a couple of old tigerspacin' back and forth in nearby cages and catchin' sight of one anothernow and then? Something like that.
"Friend" wasn't the way Marcus T. was indexed on our books. If wespotted any suspicious moves in the market, or found one of oursubsidiary companies being led astray by unseen hands, or a big contractslippin' away mysterious, the word was always passed to "watch theRunyon interests." And I'll admit that when the Corrugated saw anopenin' to put a crimp in a Runyon deal, or overbid 'em on a franchise,or crack a ripe egg on one of their bond issues, we only waited longenough for it to get dark before gettin' busy. Oh, yes, we was realchummy that way.
And then again, with the Runyon system touchin' ours in so many spots,we had a lot of open daylight dealin's. We interlocked here and there;we had joint leases, trackage agreements, and so on, where we was justas trustin' of each other as a couple of gentlemen crooks dividin' thesouvenirs after an early mornin' call at a country-house.
This terminal business Old Hickory had mentioned was a sample. Course, Ionly knew about it in a vague sort of way: something about ore docks upon the Lakes. Anyway, it was a case where the Runyon people had hoggedthe waterfront and was friskin' us for tonnage charges on every steamerwe loaded.
I know it was something that had to be renewed annual, for I'd heard Mr.Ellins beefin' about it more'n once. Last year, I remember, he was worsethan usual, which was accounted for later by the fact that the ton ratehad been jumped a couple of cents. And now it had been almost doubled.No wonder he wanted a confab with Marcus T. on the subject. And, fromwhere I stood, it looked like he ought to have it, grouch or no grouch.
"Bixby," says I, "Mr. Ellins would just grieve himself sick if thisreunion he's planned don't come off. Now, what's the best you can do?"
"If Mr. Ellins could come to the private car----" begins Bixby.
"Say," I breaks in, "you wouldn't ask him to climb over freight-cars anddodge switch-engines just for old times' sake, would you?"
Bixby holds up both hands and registers painful protest.
"By no means," says he. "We would send the limousine for Mr. Ellins,have it wait his convenience, and drive him directly to the car steps. Ithink I can arrange the interview for any time between two-thirty andfour o'clock this afternoon."
"Now, that's talkin'!" says I. "I'll see what I can do with the boss.Wait,
will you?"
Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. OldHickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage ona black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off Iexplains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about thetrained nurse and the private physician.
"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am.Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why,I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap ofluxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar feeto a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring aprivate physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"
"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests.
Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless.
"No," says he.
Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' hislower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, orsomething like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. Idrops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:
"Well, son?"
"If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousinewill be waiting."
"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminallease. Shall I dig it up?"
"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bringalong anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entireretinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-tonedsecretary."
"Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like anoutside porter. But I'll go wind myself up."
All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff.And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes afterI'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe,two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin'maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise tothe fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but Ican absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get mymind pores open.
At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap ofback-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave insome of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent forone of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidationshake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in ourgeneral offices. Just on a chance, I pushes the button for him.
Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet littleScotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers,he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters thanI do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry ofhow we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had beencalled in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out.
I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while wemunched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out oldletters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by threeP.M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-indexof 'em in my so-called brain.
"When you're ready, Mr. Ellins," says I, standin' by with my hat in myhand.
"Oh, yes," says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair.
And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeurwaitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolledacross Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shinyprivate car with a brass-bound bay-window on one end and flower-boxeshung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happylittle home on wheels.
Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us.
Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held mybreath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as asteel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give usthe hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin'under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule.
"So good of you, Mr. Ellins," he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in?Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, youknow. This way, gentlemen."
Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Onceinside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of aperfectly good drawin'-room--easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vasesfull of roses, double hangin's at the windows.
"Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir.Pardon me a moment."
Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' howthe light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out afoot-rest--like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right inthe midst of it I near spilled the beans by pullin' an afternoon editionout of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "Butmay I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling ofnewspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready."
I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he'soff to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap ispeekin' through the draperies.
Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute--twominutes. And finally the procession appears.
First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray;and after them a valet and the private physician with the great MarcusT. walkin' slow between.
He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short,poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but hadshrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at hismouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sortof a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keenpair of eyes that seem to take in everything.
Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a socialerror. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is.With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over thechair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They easeRunyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By aneyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray.
It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. Whenit's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade backthrough the draperies.
"Hello, Ellins," says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wrecklike me."
I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummythat way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even OldHickory must have felt something as I did.
"I--I didn't know," says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?"
"Oh, it's nothing," says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-oddyears of hard living by--by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sourmilk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look asthough you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in theState Street days, eh?"
First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, therewas Bixby all the time, standin' behind watchful. And right in themiddle of a sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon aglass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. would take a sipobedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there'sanything special he can do for Mr. Ellins.
"Why, yes," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off yourhighwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless youmean to take all of our mining profits."
Marcus T.'s eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle.
"Bixby," says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in thetonnage rate to the Corrugated?"
"I think so, sir," says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir."
"Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up."
"He needn't," says Old Hickory.
"It's been doubled, that's all. We hadthe notice last week. Torchy, did you----"
"Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him.
"Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have beensome well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must----"
"It's because you think you've got us in a hole," breaks in Old Hickory."We've got to load our boats and you control the docks."
"Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation--for you. But Ipresume there are other dockage facilities available."
"If there were," says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would bepaying you from three to five millions a year?"
"Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully," goes on Mr.Runyon.
"Oh, certainly," says Bixby. "I will have a full report preparedand----"
"Suppose you tell it to my secretary now," insists Old Hickory, glarin'menacin' at him.
"Do so, Bixby," says Marcus T.
"Why--er--you see," says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand thecase, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to----"
"What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in.
"Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague.
"Precisely," says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plentyof unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connectwith that port."
"They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at TamarackJunction," says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of waycleared."
"Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. TamarackJunction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors."
"You mean you did hold it," says I.
"I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'.
"It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by aMinnesota notary public. See the date?"
"Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it.
Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he."It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of----"
"Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there.That would cut our haul about fifteen miles."
"And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh,Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by thetime the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new lighton the situation, doesn't it?"
Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy.
"Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby.Perhaps, though, you can offer----"
He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is.
"Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front ofRunyon.
For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then hisshoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass.
He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity.
"And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby."I will call him."
As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out asigh.
"It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion andstill enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Nameyour own terms for continuing that terminal lease."
Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the pricethey're bringin' now.
"And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your youngman? I'm just curious."
"Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred."
"Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, buthe remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing threethousand."
I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out--I tried to smother it.And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is togrin at the boss.
"Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I.
"Dollars," says he. "Beginning to-day."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take aspecial course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job."
