Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 3

between ourselves we speak of him as Cyril, and to his
face-- Well, I suppose we shall get used to saying Snee, though-- Why,
where can he be? I've rung twice and-- Oh, here he comes!"
And, believe me, when Doris described him as lookin' a little odd she's
said sumpun. Cyril was all of that. As far as figures goes he's big and
impressive enough, with sort of a dignified bulge around the equator.
But that face of his, with the white showin' through the pink, and the
pink showin' through the white in the most unexpected places! Like a
scraped radish. No, that don't give you the idea of his color scheme
exactly. Say a half parboiled baby. For the pink spots on his chin and
forehead was baby pink, and the white of his cheeks and ears was a
clear, waxy white, like he'd been made up by an artist. Then, the thin
gray hair, cropped so close the pink scalp glimmered through; and the
wide mouth with the quirky corners; and the greenish pop-eyes with the
heavy bags underneath--well, that was a map to remember.
And the worst of it was, I couldn't. Sure, I'd met it. No doubt about that.
But I follows the bunch into the house like I was in a trance, starin' at
Cyril over Westy's shoulder and askin' myself urgent, "Where have I
seen that face before?" No, I couldn't place him. And you know how a
thing like that will bother you. It got me in the appetite.
Maybe it was just as well, too, for I'd got half way through the soup
before I notices anything the matter with it. My guess was that it tasted
scorchy. I glances around at Vee, and finds she's just makin' a bluff at
eatin' hers. Doris and Westy ain't even doin' that, and when I drops my
spoon Doris signals to take it away. Which Cyril does, movin' as
solemn and dignified as if he was usherin' at a funeral. Then there's a
stage wait for three or four minutes before the fish is brought in, Cyril
paddin' around ponderous with the plates. Doris beckons him up and
demands in a whisper:
"Where is Helma?"
"Helma, ma'am," says he, "is taking the evening out."

"But--" begins Doris, then stops and bites her lip.
The fish could have stood some of the surplus cookin' that the soup got.
It wa'n't exactly eatable fish, and the potato marbles that come with it
should have been numbered; then they'd be useful in Kelley pool. Yes,
they was a bit hard. Doris gets red under the eyes and waves out the
fish.
She stands it, though, until that two-pound roast is put before Westy.
Not such a whale of a roast, it ain't. It's a one-rib affair, like an
overgrown chop, and it reposes lonesome in the middle of a big silver
platter. It's done, all right. Couldn't have been more so if it had been
cooked in a blast-furnace. Even the bone was charred through.
Westy he gazes at it in his mild, helpless way, and pokes it doubtful
with the carvin'-fork.
"I say, Cyr--er--Snee," says he, "what's this?"
"The roast, sir," says the butler.
"The deuce it is!" says Westy. "Do--do I use a saw or dynamite?" And
he stares across at Doris inquirin'.
"Snee," says Doris, her upper lip trembling "you--you may take it
away."
"Back to the kitchen, ma'am?" asks Cyril.
"Ye-es," says Doris. "Certainly."
"Very well, ma'am," says Cyril, sort of tragic and mysterious.
He hadn't more'n got through the swing-door before Doris slumps in
her chair, puts her face into her hands, and begins lettin' out the sobs
reckless. Course, Westy jumps to the rescue and starts pattin' her on the
back and offerin' soothin' words. So does Vee.
"There, there!" says Vee. "We don't mind a bit. Such things are bound

to happen."
"But I--I don't know what to do," sobs Doris. "It's--it's been getting
worse every day. They began all right--the servants, I mean. But
yesterday Marie was impudent, and to-night Helma has gone out when
she shouldn't, and now Cook has spoiled everything, and--"
We ain't favored with the rest of the sad tale, for just then there's a
quick scuff of feet, and Cyril comes skatin' through the pantry door and
does a frantic dive behind the sideboard.
Doris straightens up, brushes her eyes clear, and makes a brave stab at
bein' dignified.
"Snee," says she, real reprovin'.
"I--I beg pardon, ma'am," says Cyril, edgin' out and revealin' a broad
black smooch on his shirt-front as well as a few other un-butlery signs.
"Why, whatever has happened to yon?" demands Doris.
"I'm not complaining, ma'am," says Cyril; "but Cook, you see, she--she
didn't like it because of my