Torchy and Vee | Page 8

Someone calling me on the
'phone? All right. Yes, this is Major Wellby. What? Oh, it can't be done
today! Yes, yes! I understand all that. But see here, captain, that
transport is due to sail at--hey, central! I say, central! Oh, what's the
use?"
And as the major bangs up the receiver his face looks like a strawb'ry
shortcake just ready to serve. Somehow Mr. Ellins seems to be enjoyin'
the major's rush of temperament to the ears. Anyhow, there's a familiar
flicker under them bushy eyebrows of his and I ain't at all surprised
when he remarks soothin': "I gather, major, that someone can't seem to
get something done."
"Precisely," says the major, moppin' a few pearly beads off his shiny
dome. "And when a regular army captain makes up his mind that a
thing can't be done--well, it's hopeless, that's all. In this instance,
however, I fear he's right, worse luck!"
"Anyway," suggests Mr. Ellins, "he has made you think that the thing is
impossible, eh?"
"Think!" growls the major, glancin' suspicious at Old Hickory. "I say,
Ellins, what are you getting at? Still harping on that red tape notion, are
you? Perhaps you imagine this to be a case where, if you could only
turn loose your wonderful organization, you could work a miracle?"
"No, major," says Old Hickory. "We don't claim to work in miracles;
but when we decide that a thing ought to be done at a certain time--well,
generally it gets done."

"Just like that, eh?" grins the major sarcastic. "Really, Ellins, you big
business men are too good to be true. But see here; why not tap your
amazing efficiency for my benefit. This little job, for instance, which
one of our poor misguided captains reports as impossible within the
time limit. I suppose you would merely press a button and----"
"Not even that," breaks in Mr. Ellins. "I would simply turn it over to
Torchy here--and he'd do it."
The major glances at me careless and shrugs his shoulders. "My dear
Ellins," says he, "you probably don't realize it, but that's the sort of stuff
which adds to the horrors of war. Here you haven't the vaguest idea as
to what----"
"Perhaps," cuts in Old Hickory, "but I'll bet you a hundred to
twenty-five."
"Taken," says the major. Then he turns to me. "When can you start,
lieutenant?"
"As soon as I know where I'm starting for, sir," says I.
"How convenient," says he. "Well, then, here is an order on the New
York Telephone Co. for five spools of wire which you'll find stored
somewhere on Central Park South. See if you can get 'em."
"Yes, sir," says I. "And suppose I can?"
"Report to me at the Plutoria before 5:30 this afternoon," says he. "I
shall be having tea there. Ellins, you'd better be on hand, too, so that I
can collect that hundred."
And that's all there was to it. I'm handed a slip of paper carrying the
Quartermaster General's O. K., and while these two old sports are still
chucklin' at each other I've grabbed my uniform cap off the roll-top and
have caught an express elevator.
Course, I expected a frame-up. All them army officers are hard boiled

eggs when it comes to risking real money, and I knew the major must
think his twenty-five was as safe as if he'd invested it in thrift stamps.
As for Old Hickory Ellins, he'd toss away a hundred any time on the
chance of pulling a good bluff. So I indulges in a shadowy little grin
myself and beats it up town.
Simple enough to locate them spools of wire. Oh, yes. They're right in
the middle of the block between Sixth and Broadway, tucked away
inconspicuous among as choice a collection of contractor's junk as you
can find anywhere in town, and that's sayin' a good deal. But maybe
you've noticed what's been happenin' along there where Fifty-ninth
street gets high-toned? Looks like an earthquake had wandered by, but
it's only that down below they're connectin' the new subway with
another East river tunnel. And if there's anything in the way of old
derricks, or scrap iron, or wooden beams, or construction sheds that
ain't been left lying around on top it's because they didn't have it on
hand to leave.
Cute little things, them spools are, too; about six feet high, three wide,
and weighin' a ton or so each, I should judge. And to make the job of
movin' 'em all the merrier an old cement mixer has been at work right
next to 'em and the surplus concrete has been thrown out until they've
been bedded in as solid as so many bridge piers. I climbs around and
takes a look.
"How cunnin'!" says I. "Why,