On With Torchy | Page 9

away from the fact that he had hit it right
about the bouquets appearin' reg'lar every Wednesday. That must mean
something. But why Wednesdays? Now, what was there that happens

on Wednesday that don't----
Say, you know how you'll get a fool hunch sometimes, that'll seem
such a nutty proposition first off that you'll almost laugh at yourself for
havin' it; and yet how it'll rattle around in your bean persistent, until
you quit tryin' to get rid of it? Well, this one of mine strikes me about
as I'm snugglin' down into the hay that night, and there was no gettin'
away from it for hours.
I expect I did tear off a few chunks of slumber between times; but I was
wide awake long before my regular hour for rollin' out, and after makin'
three or four stabs at a second nap I gives it up, slips down for an early
breakfast, and before eight A.M. I'm down in the basement of the
Corrugated Buildin' interviewin' the assistant superintendent in his little
coop of an office. I comes out whistlin' and lookin' wise. And that night
after I'd made a trip over to Long Island across the Queensboro Bridge
I looks wiser still. Nothin' to do until next Wednesday.
And when it comes it sure opens up like it's goin' to be a big day, all
right! At first Old Hickory announces that he ain't goin' to have any
cops campin' around in the directors' room. It was all blithering
nonsense! Hadn't he lived through all sorts of warnin's before? And
he'd be eternally blim-scuttled if he was goin' to get cold feet over a
few faded flowers!
There was Piddie, though, with his say. His idea is to have the reserves
from two precincts scattered all over the shop, and he lugs around such
a serious face and talks so panicky that at last the boss compromises on
havin' two of the buildin' specials detailed for the job. We smuggles 'em
into the big room at eleven o'clock, and tells 'em to lay low until they
gets the word. Next comes Bingstetter, blinkin' mysterious, and has
himself concealed behind a screen in the private office. By that time
Old Hickory is almost as nervous as anybody.
"Fine state of affairs, things are at now," he growls, "when a man isn't
safe unless he has a bodyguard! That's what comes of all this political
agitation!"

"Have no fear," says the Doc; "you will not receive the fifth bouquet.
Boy, leave that door into the next room slightly ajar. He will try to
escape that way."
"Ajar she is," says I, proppin' it open with a 'phone directory.
"'Tis well," says the Doc. "Now leave us."
I was goin' to, anyway; for at exactly noon I had a date somewhere else.
There was a window openin' off the bondroom that was screened by a
pile of cases, and out from that was an iron fire escape runnin' along the
whole court side on our floor. I'd picked that window out as bein' a
good place to scout from. And I couldn't have been better placed; for I
saw just who I was expectin' the minute he heaves in sight. I'd like to
have had one glimpse, though, of Old Hickory and the Doc and Piddie
while they was watchin' and listenin' and holdin' their breath inside
there. But I'm near enough when the time comes, to hear that chorus of
gasps that's let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact.
"Ha!" says the Doc. "As I told you--a red rose!"
"Well, I'll be slam-whizzled!" explodes Old Hickory.
"But--but where did it come from?" pants Piddie. "Who--who could
have----"
And that's just when little Willie, after creepin' cautious along the fire
escape, gives his unsuspectin' victim the snappy elbow tackle from
behind and shoves him into view.
"Here's your desperado!" says I, givin' my man the persuadin' knee in
the small of his back. "Ah, scramble in there, Old Top! You ain't goin'
to be hurt. In with you now!"
"Look out!" squeals Piddie. "Police, police!"
"Ah, can that!" I sings out, helpin' my prisoner through the window and
followin' after. "Police nothin'! Shoo 'em back, will you? He's as

harmless as a kitten."
"Torchy," calls Old Hickory, recoverin' his nerve a little, "what is the
meaning of this, and who have you there?"
"This," says I, straightenin' my man up with a shoulder slap, "is the
bearer of the fifth bouquet--also the fourth, and the third, and so on.
This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin' Company.
Ain't that right, eh, old sport?"
"'Enery Cubbins, Sir," says he, scrapin' his foot polite and jerkin' off his
old cap.
"And was it you who just threw this thing on my desk?" demands Old
Hickory,