Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 4

bringing back the roast. And I'm not very
good at dodging, ma'am."
"Oh!" says Doris, shudderin'.
"It struck me here, ma'am," says Cyril, indicatin' the exact spot.
"Yes, yes, I see," says Doris. "I--I'm sorry, Snee."
"Not at all, ma'am," objects Cyril. "My fault entirely. I should have
jumped quicker. And it might have been the pudding. That wouldn't
have hit so hard, but it would have splashed more. You see, ma'am, I--"
"Never mind, Snee," cuts in Doris, tryin' to stop him.
"I don't, ma'am, I assure you," says Cyril, pluckin' a spray of parsley off
his collar. "I was only going to remark what a wonderful true eye Cook

has, ma'am; and her in liquor, at that."
"Oh, 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