by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER VII
HOW THE GARVEYS BROKE IN
Course, Vee gives me all the credit. Perfectly right, too. That's theway we have 'em trained. But, as a matter of fact, stated confidentialand on the side, it was the little lady herself who pushed the starterbutton in this affair with the Garveys. If she hadn't I don't see whereit would ever have got going.
Let's see, it must have been early in November. Anyway, it was somemessy afternoon, with a young snow flurry that had finally concluded toturn to rain, and as I drops off the 5:18 I was glad enough to see thelittle roadster backed up with the other cars and Vee waitin' insidebehind the side curtains.
"Good work!" says I, dashin' out and preparin' to climb in. "I mighthave got good and damp paddlin' home through this. Bright little thoughtof yours."
"Pooh!" says Vee. "Besides, there was an express package the driverforgot to deliver. It must be that new floor lamp. Bring it out, willyou, Torchy?"
And by the time I'd retrieved this bulky package from the express agentand stowed it inside, all the other commuters had boarded their variouslimousines and flivver taxis and cleared out.
"Hello!" says I, glancin' down the platform where a large and elegantlady is pacin' up and down lonesome. "Looks like somebody has got left."
At which Vee takes a peek. "I believe it's that Mrs. Garvey," says she.
"Oh!" says I, slidin' behind the wheel and thrown' in the gear.
I was just shiftin' to second when Vee grabs my arm. "How utterlysnobbish of us!" says she. "Let's ask if we can't take her home?"
"On the runnin' board?" says I.
"We can leave the lamp until tomorrow," says Vee. "Come on."
So I cuts a short circle and pulls up opposite this imposin' party inthe big hat and the ruffled mink coat. She lets on not to notice untilVee leans out and asks:
"Mrs. Garvey, isn't it?"
All the reply she gives is a stiff nod and I notice her face is pinkedup like she was peeved at something.
"If your car isn't here can't we take you home?" asks Vee.
She acts sort of stunned for a second, and then, after another look upthe road through the sheets of rain, she steps up hesitatin'. "I supposemy stupid chauffeur forgot I'd gone to town," says she. "And as all thetaxis have been taken I--I---- But you haven't room."
"Oh, lots!" says Vee. "We will leave this ridiculous package in theexpress office and squeeze up a bit. You simply can't walk, you know."
"Well----" says she.
So I lugs the lamp back and the three of us wedges ourselves into theroadster seat. Believe me, with a party the size of Mrs. Garvey as theparty of the third part, it was a tight fit. From the way Vee chatterson, though, you'd think it was some merry lark we was indulgin' in.
"This is what I call our piggy car," says she, "for we can never ask butone other person at a time. But it's heaps better than having no car atall. And it's so fortunate we happened to see you, wasn't it?"
Being more or less busy tryin' to shift gears without barkin' Mrs.Garvey's knees, and turn corners without skiddin' into the gutter, Ididn't notice for a while that Vee was conductin' a perfectly goodmonologue. That's what it was, though. Hardly a word out of our statelypassenger. She sits there as stiff as if she was crated, starin' coldand stony straight ahead, and that peevish flush still showin' on hercheekbones. Why, you'd most think we had her under arrest instead ofdoin' her a favor. And when I finally swings into the Garvey drivewayand pulls up under the porte cochere she untangles herself from thebrake lever and crawls out.
"Thank you," says she crisp, adjustin' her picture hat. "It isn't oftenthat I am obliged to depend on--on strangers." And while Vee still hasher mouth open, sort of gaspin' from the slam, the lady has marched upthe steps and disappeared.
"Now I guess you know where you get off, eh, Vee?" says I chuckly. "You_will_ pass up your new neighbors."
"How absurd of her!" says Vee. "Why, I never dreamed that I had offendedher by not calling."
"Well, you've got the straight dope at last," says I. "She's as fond ofus as a cat is of swimmin' with the ducks. Say, my right arm is numbfrom being so close to that cold shoulder she was givin' me. Catch medoin' the rescue act for her again."
"Still," says Vee, "they have been livin out here nearly a year, haven'tthey? But then----"
At which she proceeds to state an alibi which sounds reasonable enough.She'd rather understood that the Garveys didn't expect to be called on.Maybe you know how it is in one of these near-swell suburbs! Not thatthere's any reg'lar committee to pass on newcomers. Some are taken inright off, some after a while, and some are just left out. Anyway,that's how it seems to work out here in Harbor Hills.
I don't know who it was first passed around the word, or where we got itfrom, but we'd been tipped off somehow that the Garveys didn't belong. Idon't expect either of us asked for details. Whether or not they didwasn't up to us. But everybody seems to take it that they don't, and actaccordin'. Plenty of others had met the same deal. Some quit after thefirst six months, others stuck it out.
As for the Garveys, they'd appeared from nowhere in particular, boughtthis big square stucco house on the Shore road, rolled around in theirshowy limousine, subscribed liberal to all the local drives and charityfunds, and made several stabs at bein' folksy. But there's no response.None of the bridge-playing set drop in of an afternoon to ask Mrs.Garvey if she won't fill in on Tuesday next, she ain't invited to jointhe Ladies' Improvement Society, or even the Garden Club; and whenGarvey's application for membership gets to the Country Club committeehe's notified that his name has been put on the waitin' list. I expectit's still there.
But it's kind of a jolt to find that Mrs. Garvey is sore on us for allthis. "Where does she get that stuff?" I asks Vee, after we get home."Who's been telling her we handle the social blacklist for the RoaringRock district of Long Island?"
"I suppose she thinks we have done our share, or failed to do it," saysVee. "And perhaps we have. I'm rather sorry for the Garveys. I'm sure Idon't know what's the matter with them."
I didn't, either. Hadn't given it a thought, in fact. But I sort of gotto chewin' it over. Maybe it was the flashy way Mrs. Garvey dressed, andthe noisy laugh I'd occasionally heard her spring on the stationplatform when she was talking to Garvey. Not that all the lady membersof the Country Club set are shrinkin' violets who go around costumed inQuaker gray and whisper their remarks modest. Some are about as spiffydressers as you'll see anywhere and a few are what I'd call speedyperformers. But somehow you know who they are and where they came from,and make allowances. They're in the swim, anyway.
The trouble might be with Garvey. He's about the same type as the otherhalf of the sketch--a big, two-fisted ruddy-faced husk, attired sportyin black and white checks, with gray gaiters and a soft hat to match thesuit. Wore a diamond-set Shriners' watch fob, and an Elks' emblem in hisbuttonhole. Course, you wouldn't expect him to have any gentle, ladylikevoice, and he don't. I heard he'd been sent on as an eastern agent ofsome big Kansas City packin' house. Must have been a good payin' line,for he certainly looks like ready money. But somehow he don't seem to bepopular with our bunch of commuters, although at first I understand hetried to mix in free and easy.
Anyway, the verdict appears to be against lettin' the Garveys in, and wehad about as much to do with it as we did about fixin' the price ofcoal, or endin' the sugar shortage. Yet here when we try to do one of'em a good turn we get the cold eye.
"Next time," says I, "we'll remember we are strangers, and not give heran openin' to throw it at us."
So I'm a little surprised the followin' Sunday afternoon to see theGarvey limousine stoppin' out front. As I happens to be wanderin' aroundoutside I steps up to the gate just as Garvey is gettin' out.
"Ah, Ballard!" he says, cordial. "I want to thank you and Mrs. Ballardfor picking Mrs. Garvey up the other day when our fool chauffeur went tosleep at the switch. It--it was mighty decent of you."
"Not at all," says I "Couldn't do much less
for a neighbor, could we?"
"Some could," says he. "A whole lot less. And if you don't mind mysaying so, it's about the first sign we've had that we were counted asneighbors."
"Oh, well," says I, "maybe nobody's had a chance to show it before. Willyou come in a minute and thaw out in front of the wood fire?"
"Why--er--I suppose it ain't reg'lar," says he, "but blamed if Idon't."
And after I've towed him into the livin' room, planted him in a wingchair, and poked up the hickory logs, he springs this conundrum on me:
"Ballard," says he, "I'd like to ask you something and have you give mean answer straight from the shoulder."
"That's my specialty," says I. "Shoot."
"Just what's the matter with us--Mrs. Garvey and me?" he demands.
"Why--why--Who says there's anything the matter with either of you?" Iasks, draggy.
"They don't have to say it," says he. "They act it. Everybody in thisblessed town; that is, all except the storekeepers, the plumbers, themilkman, and so on. My money seems to be good enough for them. But asfor the others--well, you know how we've been frozen out. As though wehad something catching, or would blight the landscape. Now what's thebig idea? What are some of the charges in the indictment?"
And I'll leave it to you if that wasn't enough to get me scrapin' myfront hoof. How you goin' to break it to a gent sittin' by your ownfireside that maybe he's a bit rough in the neck, or too much of a yawpto fit into the refined and exclusive circle that patronizes the 8:03bankers' express? As I see it, the thing can't be done.
"Excuse me, Mr. Garvey," says I, "but if there's been any true billhanded in by a pink tea grand jury it's been done without consultin'me. I ain't much on this codfish stuff myself."
"Shake, young man," says he grateful. "I thought you looked like theright sort. But without gettin' right down to brass tacks, or namin' anynames, couldn't you slip me a few useful hints? There's no use denyin'we're in wrong here. I don't suppose it matters much just how; not now,anyway. But Tim Garvey is no quitter; at least, I've never had thatname. And I've made up my mind to stay with this proposition until I'mdead sure I'm licked."
"That's the sportin' spirit," says I.
"What I want is a line on how to get in right," says he.
At which I scratches my head and stalls around.
"For instance," he goes on, "what is it these fine Harbor Hills folks dothat I can't learn? Is it parlor etiquette? Then me for that. I'll takelessons. I'm willin' to be as refined and genteel as anybody if that'swhat I lack."
"That's fair enough," says I, still stallin'.
"You see," says Garvey, "this kind of a deal is a new one on us. I don'twant to throw any bull, but out in Kansas City we thought we had just asgood a bunch as you could find anywhere; and we were the ringleaders, asyou might say. Mixed with the best people. All live wires, too. We had anew country club that would make this one of yours look like a freightshed. I helped organize it, was one of the directors. And the Madam tookher part, too; first vice-president of the Woman's Club, charter memberof the Holy Twelve bridge crowd, as some called it, and always apatroness at the big social affairs. A new doormat wouldn't, last us alifetime out there. But here--say, how do you break into this bunch,anyway?"
"Why ask me, who was smuggled in the back door?" says I, grinnin'.
"But you know a lot of these high-brows and aristocrats," he insists. "Idon't. I don't get 'em at all. What brainy stunts or polite acts arethey strongest for? How do they behave when they're among themselves?"
"Why, sort of natural, I guess," says I.
"Whaddye mean, natural?" demands Garvey. "For instance?"
"Well, let's see," says I. "There's Major Brooks Keating, the imposin'old boy with the gray goatee, who was minister to Greece or Turkey once.Married some plute's widow abroad and retired from the diplomatic game.Lives in that near-chateau affair just this side of the Country Club.His fad is paintin'."
"Pictures?" asks Garvey.
"No. Cow barns, fences, chicken houses," says I. "Anything around theplace that will stand another coat."
"You don't mean he does it himself?" says Garvey.
"Sure he does," says I. "Gets on an old pair of overalls and jumper andgoes to it like he belonged to the union. Last time I was up there hehad all the blinds off one side of the house and was touchin' 'em up.Mrs. Keating was givin' a tea that afternoon and he crashes right inamongst 'em askin' his wife what she did with that can of turpentine.Nobody seems to mind, and they say he has a whale of a time doin' it. Sothat's his high-brow stunt."
Garvey shakes his head puzzled. "House painting, eh?" says he. "Somefad, I'll say."
"He ain't got anything on J. Kearney Rockwell, the potty-built old sportwith the pink complexion and the grand duchess wife," I goes on. "Youknow?"
Garvey nods. "Of Rockwell, Griggs & Bland, the big brokerage house,"says he. "What's his pet side line?"
"Cucumbers," says I. "Has a whole hothouse full of 'em. Don't allow thegardener to step inside the door, but does it all himself. Even lugs 'emdown to the store in a suitcase and sells as high as $20 worth a week,they say. I hear he did start peddlin' 'em around the neighborhood once,but the grand duchess raised such a howl he had to quit. You're liableto see him wheelin' in a barrowful of manure any time, though."
"Ought to be some sight," says Garvey. "Cucumbers! Any more like him?"
"Oh, each one seems to have his own specialty," says I. "Take AustinGordon, one of the Standard Oil crowd, who only shows up at 26 Broadwayfor the annual meetings now. You'd never guess what his hobby is. Puppetshows."
"Eh?" says Garvey, gawpin'.
"Sort of Punch and Judy stuff," says I. "Whittles little dummies out ofwood, paints their faces, dresses 'em up, and makes 'em act by pullin' alot of strings. Writes reg'lar plays for 'em. He's got a complete littletheatre fitted up over his garage; stage, scenery, footlights, foldingchairs and everything. Gives a show every now and then. Swell affairs.Everybody turns out. Course they snicker some in private, but he getsaway with it."
Garvey stares at me sort of dazed. "And here I've been afraid to doanything but walk around my place wearing gloves and carrying a cane;"says he. "Afraid of doing something that wasn't genteel, or that wouldget the neighbors talking. While these aristocrats do what they please.They do, don't they!"
"That about states it," says I.
"Do--do you suppose I could do that, too?" he asks.
"Why not?" says I. "You don't stand to lose anything, do you, even ifthey do chatter? If I was you I'd act natural and tell 'em to go hang."
"You would?" says he, still starin'.
"To the limit," says I. "What's the fun of livin' if you can't?"
"Say, young man," says Garvey, slappin' his knee. "That listenssensible to me. Blamed if I don't. And I--I'm much obliged."
And after he's gone Vee comes down from upstairs and wants to know whaton earth I've been talking so long to that Mr. Garvey about.
"Why," says I, "I've been givin' him some wise dope on how to live amongplutes and be happy."
"Silly!" says Vee, rumplin' my red hair. "Do you know what I've made upmy mind to do some day this week? Have you take me for an evening callon the Garveys."
"Gosh!" says I. "You're some little Polar explorer, ain't you?"
It was no idle threat of Vee's. A few nights later we got under wayright after dinner and drove over there. I expect we were about thefirst outsiders to push the bell button since they moved in. But we'd nosooner rung than Vee begins to hedge.
"Why, they must be giving a party!" says she. "Listen! There's anorchestra playing."
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Sounds like a jazz band."
A minute later, though, when the butler opens the door, there's no soundof music, and as we goes in we catches Garvey just strugglin' into hisdinner coat. He seems glad to see us, mighty glad. Says so. Tows usright into the big drawin' room. But Mrs. Garvey ain't so enthusiastic.She warms up about as much as a cold storage turkey.
&n
bsp; You can't feaze Vee, though, when she starts in to be folksy. "I'm justso sorry we've been so long getting over," says she. "And we came nearnot coming in this time. Didn't we hear music a moment ago. You're nothaving a dance or--or anything, are you?"
The Garveys look at each other sort of foolish for a second.
"Oh, no," says Mrs. Garvey. "Nothing of the sort. Perhaps some of theservants----"
"Now, Ducky," breaks in Garvey, "let's not lay it on the servants."
And Mrs. Garvey turns the color of a fire hydrant clear up into herpermanent wave. "Very well, Tim," says she. "If you _will_ let everybodyknow. I suppose it's bound to get out sooner or later, anyhow." And withthat she turns to me. "Anyway, you're the young man who put him up tothis nonsense. I hope you're satisfied."
"Me?" says I, doin' the gawp act.
"How delightfully mysterious!" says Vee. "What's it all about?"
"Yes, Garvey," says I. "What you been up to?"
"I'm being natural, that's all," says he.
"Natural!" snorts Mrs. Garvey. "Is that what you call it?"
"How does it break out?" says I.
"If you must know," says Mrs. Garvey, "he's making a fool of himself byplaying a snare drum."
"Honest?" says I, grinnin' at Garvey.
"Here it is," says he, draggin' out from under a davenport a perfectlygood drum.
"And you might as well exhibit the rest of the ridiculous things," saysMrs. Garvey.
"Sure!" says Garvey, swingin' back a Japanese screen and disclosin' afull trap outfit--base drum with cymbals, worked by a foot pedal,xylophone blocks, triangle, and sand boards--all rigged up next to acabinet music machine.
"Well, well!" says I. "All you lack is a leader and Sophie Tucker toscreech and you could go on at Reisenwebers."
"Isn't it all perfectly fascinating?" says Vee, testin' the drum pedal.
"But it's such a common, ordinary thing to do," protests Mrs. Garvey."Drumming! Why, out in Kansas City I remember that the man who playedthe traps in our Country Club orchestra worked daytimes as a plumber. Hewas a poor plumber, at that."
"But he was a swell drummer," says Garvey. "I took lessons of him, onthe sly. You see, as a boy, the one big ambition in my life was to playthe snare drum. But I never had money enough to buy one. I couldn't havefound time to play it anyway. And in Kansas City I was too busy tryingto be a good sport. Here I've got more time than I know what to do with.More money, too. So I've got the drum, and the rest. I'm here to say,too, that knocking out an accompaniment to some of these new jazzrecords is more fun than I've ever had all the rest of my life."
"I'm sure it must be," says Vee. "Do play once for us, Mr. Garvey.Couldn't I come in on the piano? Let's try that 'Dardanella' thing?"
And say, inside of ten minutes they were at it so hard that you'd mostthought Arthur Pryor and his whole aggregation had cut loose. Then theydid some one-step pieces with lots of pep in 'em, and the way Garveycould roll the sticks, and tinkle the triangle, and keep the cymbals andbase drum goin' with his foot was as good to watch as a jugglin' act,even if he does leak a lot on the face when he gets through.
"You're some jazz artist, I'll say," says I.
"So will the neighbors, I'm afraid," says Mrs. Garvey. "That will soundnice, won't it?"
"Oh, blow the neighbors!" says Garvey. "I'm going to do as I please fromnow on; and it pleases me to do this."
"Then we might as well nail up the front door and eat in the kitchen,like we used to," says she, sighin'.
But it don't work out that way for them. It was like this: Austin Gordonwas pullin' off one of his puppet shows and comes around to ask Veewouldn't she do some piano playin' for him between the acts and durin'parts of the performance. He'd hoped to have a violinist, too, but theparty had backed out. So Vee tells him about Garvey's trap outfit, andhow clever he is at it, and suggests askin' him in.
"Why, certainly!" says Gordon.
So Garvey pulls his act before the flower and chivalry of Harbor Hills.They went wild over it, too. And at the reception afterwards he wasintroduced all round, patted on the back by the men, and taffied up bythe ladies. Even Mrs. Timothy Garvey, who'd been sittin' stiff andpurple-faced all the evenin' in a back seat was rung in for a little ofthe glory.
"Say, Garvey," says Major Brooks Keating, "we must have you and Mrs.Ballard play for us at our next Country Club dinner dance after the foolmusicians quit. Will you, eh? Not a member? Well, you ought to be. I'llsee that you're made one, right away."
I don't know of anyone who was more pleased at the way things had turnedout than Vee. "There, Torchy!" says she. "I've always said you were awonder at managing things."
"Why shouldn't I be?" says I, givin' her the side clinch. "Look at theswell assistant I've got."
