Torchy and Vee | Page 6

turns purple in the gills,
but he ends by snatchin' away the derby and marchin' stiff to the door.
"Understand," says he, with his hand on the knob, "I do not accept your
impertinence as a reply. I--I shall see Marion again."
"Sure you will," says I. "She'll be around to get your dinner order early
next week."
"Bah!" says Biggles, bangin' the door behind him.
But, say, inside of five minutes he'd been wiped off the slate, and them
two girls was plannin' their hot-food campaign as busy and excited as if
it was Marion's church weddin' they were doping out. It's after
midnight before they breaks away, too.
You know Vee, though. She ain't one to start things and then quit. She's
a stayer. And some grand little hustler, too. By Monday mornin' the
Harbor Hills Community Kitchen Co. was a going concern. And before
the week was out they had more'n forty families on the standin' order
list, with new squads of soup scorchers bein' fired every day.
What got a gasp out of me was the first time I gets sight of Marion
Gray in her working rig. Nothing old-maidish about that costume. Not
so you'd notice. She's gone the limit--khaki riding pants, leather leggins
and a zippy cloth cap cut on the overseas pattern. None of them
Women's Motor Corps girls had anything on her. And maybe she ain't
some picture, too, as she jumps in behind the wheel of the truck and
steps on the gas pedal!
Also, I was some jarred to learn that the enterprise was a payin' one
almost from the start. Folks was just tickled to death with havin'

perfectly good meals, well cooked, well seasoned and pipin' hot, set
down at their back doors prompt every day, with no fractious fryin'-pan
pirates growlin' around the kitchens, and no local food profiteers
soakin' 'em with big weekly bills.
This has been goin' on a month, when one day as I comes home Vee
greets me with a flyin' tackle.
"Oh, Torchy!" she squeals, "what do you think has happened?"
"I know," says I. "Baby's cut a tooth."
"No," says she. "It's--it's about Marion."
"Oh!" says I. "She ain't bumped somebody with the truck, has she?"
"How absurd!" says Vee. "But, listen, Captain Ellery Prescott has come
back."
"What! The old favorite?" says I. "But I thought he was over with
Pershing?"
"Not yet," says Vee. "He has been out at some Western camp training
recruits all this time. But now he has his orders. He is to sail very soon.
And he's seen Marion."
"Has he?" said I. "Did it give him a jolt, or what?"
Vee giggles and pulls my head down so she can whisper in my ear. "He
thought her perfectly stunning, as she is, of course. And they're to be
married day after tomorrow."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "That puts a crimp in the ready-made dinner
business, I expect."
"Not at all," says Vee. "Until he comes back, after the war, Marion is
going to carry on."
"Anyway," says I, "it ends 'Puffy' Biggies as an impendin' tragedy,

don't it? And I expect that's worth while, too."
CHAPTER II
OLD HICKORY BATS UP ONE
Anybody would most think I'd been with the Corrugated Trust long
enough to know that Old Hickory Ellins generally gets what he wants,
whether it's quick action from an office boy or a two-thirds majority
vote from the board of directors. But once in a while I seem to forget,
and shortly after that I'm wonderin' if it was a tank I went up against so
solid, or if someone threw the bond safe at me.
What let me in wrong this last time was a snappy little remark I got
shot my way right here in the general offices. I was just back from a
three-days' chase after a delayed shipment of bridge girders and steel
wheelbarrows that was billed for France in a rush, and I'd got myself
disliked by most of the traffic managers between here and Altoona, to
say nothing of freight conductors, yard bosses and so on. But I'd
untangled those nine cars and got 'em movin' toward the North River,
and now I was steamin' through a lot of office detail that had piled up
while I was gone. I'd lunched luxurious on an egg sandwich and a war
doughnut that Vincent had brought up to me from the arcade automat,
and I'd 'phoned Vee that I might not be out home until the 11:13, when
in blows this potty party with the poison ivy leaves on his shoulder
straps and demands to see Mr. Ellins at once. Course, it's me with my
heels together doin' the zippy salute.
"Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in