Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 4

oh!" squeals Doris panicky.
"It began when I brought her the brandy for the pudding sauce, ma'am," goes on Cyril, real chatty. "She'd had only one glass when she begins chucking me under the chin and calling me Dearie. Not that I ever gave her any cause, ma'am, to--"
"Please!" wails Doris. "Harold! Stop him, can't you?"
And say, can you see Sappy Westlake stoppin' anything? Specially such a runnin' stream as this here now Cyril. But he comes to life for one faint effort.
"I say, you know," he starts in, "perhaps you'd best say no more about it, Snee."
"As you like, sir," says Cyril. "Only, I don't wish my feelings considered. Not in the least. If you care to send back the salad I will gladly--"
Westy glances appealin' towards me.
"Torchy," says he, "couldn't you--"
Couldn't I, though! Say, I'd just been yearnin' to crash into this affair for the last five minutes. I'd remembered Cyril. At least, I thought I had. And I proceeds to rap for order with a table-knife.
"Excuse me, Mr. Snee," says I, "but you ain't been called on for a monologue. You can print the whole story of how kitchen neutrality was violated, issue a yellow book, if you like; but just for the minute try to forget that assault with the roast and see if you can remember ever havin' met me before. Can you?"
Don't seem to faze Cyril a bit. He takes a good look at me and then shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, sir," says he, "but I'm afraid I'm stupid about such things. I can sometimes recall names very readily, but faces--"
"How long since you quit jugglin' pies and sandwiches at the quick-lunch joint?" says I.
"Three months, sir," says he prompt.
"Tied the can to you, did they?" says I.
"I was discharged, sir," says Cyril. "The proprietor objected to my talking so much to customers. I suppose he was quite right. One of my many failings, sir."
"I believe you," says I. "So you took up buttling, eh? Wa'n't that some nervy jump?"
"I considered it a helpful step in my career," says he.
"Your which?" says I.
"Perhaps I should put it," says he, "that the work seemed to offer the discipline which would make me most useful to our noble order."
And as he says the last two words he puts his palms at right angles to his ears, thumbs in, and bows three times.
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"I refer," says Cyril, "to the Brotherhood of the Sacred Owls, which is also named the Sublime Order of Humility and Wisdom."
And once more he does the ear wigwag. Believe me, he had us all gaspin'.
"Vurra good, Eddie!" says I. "Sacred Owls, eh? What is that--one of these insurance schemes?"
"There are both mortuary and sick benefits appertaining to membership," says Cyril, "but our chief aim and purpose is to acquire humility and wisdom. It so happens that I have been named as candidate for Grand Organizer of the East, and at our next solemn conclave, to be held--"
"I get you," says I. "I can see where you might find some practice in bein' humble by buttlin', but how about gettin' wise?"
"With humility comes wisdom, as our public ritual has it," says Cyril. "In the text-book which I studied--'The Perfect Butler'--there was very little about being humble, however. But my cousin, who conducts an employment agency, assured me that could only be acquired by practice. So he secured me several positions. He was wholly correct. I have been discharged on an average of once a week for the last two months, and on each occasion I have discovered newer and deeper depths of humility."
I draws a long breath and gazes admiring at Cyril. Then I turns to the Westlakes.
"Westy," says I, "do you want to accommodate Mr. Snee with a fresh chance of perfectin' himself for the Sublime Order?"
He nods. So does Doris.
"It's a unanimous vote, Cyril," says I. "You're fired. Not for failin' to duck the roast, understand, but because you're too gabby."
"Thank you, sir," says he, actin' a little disappointed. "I am to leave at once, I suppose?"
"No," says I. "Stop long enough in the kitchen to tell Cook she gets the chuck, too. After that, if you ain't qualified as Grand Imperial Organizer of the whole United States, then the Sacred Owls don't know their business. By-by, Cyril. We're backin' you to win, remember."
And as I pushes him through the pantry door I locks it behind him. Followin' which, Doris uses the powder-puff under her eyes a little and we adjourns to the Plutoria palm-room, where we had a perfectly good dinner, all the humility Westy could buy with a two-dollar tip, and no folksy chatter on the side.
Next day the Westlakes calls up another agency, and by night they had an entire new line of help on the job.
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