Torchy as a Pa | Page 8

old crowd in
Greenwich Village. Hallam tried to keep up the bluff for a while that he
wasn't workin' reg'lar, but his friends began to suspect. They noticed
little things, like the half pint of cream that was left every morning for
the Beans, the fact that Hallam was puttin' on weight and gettin'
reckless with clean collars. And finally, after being caught coming from
the butcher's with two whole pounds of lamb chops, Myrtle broke down

and confessed. They say after that F. Hallam was a changed man. He
had his hair trimmed, took to wearin' short bow ties, and when he dined
at the Purple Pup, sneaked in and sat at a side table like any tourist
from the upper West Side.
Course, on Sundays and holidays he put on the old velvet coat, and set
up his easel and splashed away with his paints. But mostly he did heads
of Myrtle, and figure stuff. It was even hinted that he hired models.
It must have been on one of his days home that this Countess Zecchi
person discovered him in his old rig. She'd been towed down there on a
slummin' party by a club friend of Mr. Robert's who'd heard of Hallam
and had the address. You remember hearin' about the Countess, maybe?
She was Miss Mae Collins, of Kansas City, originally, and Zecchi was
either the second or third of her hubbies, or hobbies, whichever you'd
care to call 'em. A lively, flighty female, Countess Zecchi, who lives in
a specially decorated suite at the Plutoria, sports a tiger cub as a pet,
and indulges in other whims that get her more or less into the spotlight.
Her particular hunch on this occasion was that she must have her
portrait done by a real Bohemian artist, and offhand she gives F.
Hallam the job.
"You must paint me as Psyche," says she. "I've always wanted to be
done as Psyche. Can't we have a sitting tomorrow?"
Hallam was almost too thrilled for words, but he managed to gasp out
that she could. So he reports sick to his boss, blows in all his spare cash
buyin' a big mirror and draperies to fix up a Psyche pool in the studio,
and decides that at last luck has turned. For three days the Countess
Zecchi shows up reg'lar, drapes herself in pink tulle, and Hallam paints
away enthusiastic.
Then she don't come any more. For a week she stalls him off and
finally tells him flat that posing as Psyche bores her. Besides, she's just
starting south on a yachting party. The portrait? Oh, she doesn't care
about that. She hadn't really given him a commission, just told him he
might paint her. And he mustn't bother her by calling up again.

Positively.
So Hallam hits the earth with a dull thud. He reports back on the
advertisin' job and groans every time he thinks how much he spent on
the mirror and big canvas. He'd been let in, that's all. But he finishes up
the Psyche picture durin' odd times. He even succeeded in unloadin' it
on some dealer who supplies the department stores, so he quits about
square.
Then an odd thing happens. At the advertisin' agency there's a call from
a big customer for a picture to go with a Morning Glory soap ad. It's a
rush order, to be done in six colors. Hallam has a bright little thought.
Why wouldn't his Psyche picture fit in? The boss thinks it's worth
lookin' up, and an hour later he comes back from the dealer's with the
trade all made. And inside of three weeks no less than two dozen
magazines was bindin' in a full page in colors showin' the fair form of
the Countess Zecchi bendin' over a limpid pool tryin' to fish out a cake
of Morning Glory soap. It was a big winner, that ad. The soap firm
ordered a hundred thousand copies struck off on heavy plate paper, and
if you sent in five wrappers with a two-cent stamp you'd be mailed a
copy to tack up in the parlor.
Whether or not the general public would have recognized the Countess
Zecchi as the girl in the soap ad. if she'd kept still about it is a question.
Most likely it wouldn't. But the Countess didn't keep still. That wasn't
her way. She proceeds to put up a holler. The very day she discovers
the picture, through kind friends who almost swamped her with cut-out
copies and telegrams, she rushes back to New York and calls up the
reporters. All one afternoon she throws cat fits for their benefit up at
her Plutoria apartment. She tells 'em what a wicked outrage has been
sprung on her by a wretched shrimp of