Torchy, Private Sec. | Page 6

near it!
You see, bein' jumped from office boy to private sec, all in one
afternoon, was some breath-takin' yank.
I expect the full force of what had happened didn't hit me until here the
other mornin' when I strolls into the Corrugated gen'ral offices on the
new nine o'clock schedule and finds this raw recruit holdin' down my
old chair behind the rail. Nice, smooth-haired, bright-eyed youngster,
with his ears all scoured out pink and his knickerbocker suit brushed
neat. He hops up and opens the gate real respectful for me.
"Well, Son," says I, "what does Mother call you?"

"Vincent, Sir," says he.
"Some class to that, too," says I. "But how do you know, Vincent, that
I'm one of the reg'lar staff and not canvassin' for something?"
"I don't, Sir," says he, "until I see if you know where to hang your hat."
"Good domework, Vincent," says I. "On that I'm backin' you to hold
the job."
"Thank you, Sir," says he. "I told Mother I'd do my best."
And with that he springs a bashful smile. It was the "Sir" every time
that caught me, though. For more'n four years I'd been just Torchy or
Boy to all hands in the shop, from Old Hickory down; and now all of a
sudden I finds there's one party at least that rates me in the Sir class.
Kind of braced me for swingin' past all that row of giggly lady typists
and on into Mr. Robert's private office.
Thrill No. 2 arrived half an hour later. In postin' myself as to what this
Mutual Fundin' Company really is that I'm supposed to be workin' for, I
needed some papers from the document safe. And for the first time I
pushes the buzzer button. Prompt and eager in comes Vincent, the fair
haired.
"Know which is Mr. Piddie, do you?" says I.
"Oh, yes, Sir," says he.
"Well," says I, "tell him I need those--no, better ask him to step in here
a minute."
Honest, I wa'n't plannin' to rub it in, either. Course, I'd done a good deal
of trottin' for Piddie, and a lot of it wa'n't for anything else than to let
him show his authority; but I didn't hold any grudge. I'd squared the
account in my own way. How he was goin' to take it now I was the one
to send for him, I didn't know; but there wa'n't any use dodgin' the
issue.

And you should have seen Piddie make his first official entrance! You
know how stiff and wooden he is as a rule? Well, as he marches in over
the rug and comes to a parade rest by the desk, he's about as limber as a
length of gas pipe. And solemn? That long face of his would have
soured condensed milk!
"Yes, Sir?" says he. And to me, mind you! It come out a little husky,
like it was bein' filtered through strong emotions; but there it is. Piddie
has sirred me his first "Sir."
He knows a roll-top when he sees one, Piddie does, and he ain't omittin'
any deference due. You know the type? He's one of the kind that was
born to be "our Mr. Piddie"; the sort that takes off his hat to a
vice-president, and holds his breath in the presence of the big wheeze.
But, say, I don't want any joss-sticks burned for me.
"Ditch it, Piddie," says I, "ditch it!"
"I--er--I beg pardon?" says he.
"The Sir stuff," says I. "Just because I'm behind the ground glass
instead of the brass rail don't make me a sacred being, or you a
lobbygow, does it? I guess we've known each other too long for that,
eh?" And I holds out the friendly mitt.
Honest, he's got a human streak in him, Piddie has, if you know where
to strike it. The cast-iron effect comes out of his shoulders, the wooden
look from his face. He almost smiles.
"Thank you, Torchy," says he. "I--er--my congratulations on your
new----"
"We'll spread 'em on the minutes," says I, "and proceed to show the
Corrugated some teamwork that mere salaries can't buy. Are you on?"
He was. Inside of three minutes he'd chucked that stiff-necked, flunky
pose and was coachin' me like a big brother, and by the time he'd beat
into my head all he knew about the Fundin' Comp'ny we was as

chummy as two survivors of the same steamer wreck. Simple, I know;
but this little experience made me feel like I'd signed a gen'ral peace
treaty with the world at large.
I hadn't, though. An hour later I runs up against Willis G. Briscoe. He's
kind of an outside development manager, who makes preliminary
reports on new deals. One of these cold-eyed, chesty parties, Willis