Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 6

our Wall Street men had
copped out a whalin' big shell-case contract for us, gayly ignorin' the
fact that this was clean out of our line.
How Old Hickory did roast him for it at the time! But when he come to
figure out the profits, Mr. Ellins don't do a thing but rustle around, lease
all the stray factories in the market, from a canned gas plant in Bayonne
to a radiator foundry in Yonkers, fit 'em up with the proper machinery,
and set 'em to turnin' out battle pills by the trainload.
"I gather," says Mr. Ellins, "that the Lieutenant suspects we are not
taking elaborate precautions to safeguard our munition plants
from--well, Heaven knows what. So if you could show him around and
ease his mind any it would be helpful. At least, it would be a relief to
me just now. Come in and meet him."
My idea was to chirk him up at the start.

"Howdy, Lieutenant," says I, extendin' the cordial palm.
But both the Lieutenant's eyes must have been wandering for he don't
seem to notice my friendly play.
"Ha-ar-r-r yuh," he rumbles from somewhere below his collar-button,
and with great effort he manages to focus on me with his good lamp.
For a single-barreled look-over, it's a keen one, too--like bein' stabbed
with a cheese-tester. But it's soon over, and the next minute he's
listenin' thoughtful while Old Hickory is explainin' how I'm the one
who can tow him around the munition shops.
"Torchy," Mr. Ellins winds up with, shootin' me a meanin' look from
under his bushy eyebrows, "I want you to show the Lieutenant our
main works."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. For he knew very well there wasn't any such
thing.
His left eyelid does a slow flutter.
"The main works, you understand," he repeats. "And see that
Lieutenant Fothergill is well taken care of. You will find the limousine
waiting."
"Yes, sir," says I. "I'm right behind you."
Course, if Mr. Robert had been there instead of off honeymoonin', this
would have been his job. He'd have towed Cecil to his club, fed him
Martinis and vintage stuff until he couldn't have told a 32-inch shell
from an ashcan; handed him a smooth spiel about capacity, strain tests,
shipping facilities, and so on, and dumped him at his hotel entirely
satisfied that all was well, without having been off Fifth Avenue.
The best I can do, though, is to steer him into a flossy Broadway grill,
shove him the wine-card with the menu, and tell him to go the limit.
He orders a pot of tea and a combination chop.

"Oh, say, have another guess," says I. "What's the matter with that
squab caserole and something in a silver ice-bucket?"
"Thank you, no," says he. "I--er--my nerves, you know."
I couldn't deny that he looked it, either. Such a high-strung, jumpy
party he is, always glancin' around suspicious. And that wanderin' store
eye of his, scoutin' about on its own hook independent of the other, sort
of adds to the general sleuthy effect. Kind of weird, too.
But I tries to forget that and get down to business.
"Surprisin' ain't it," says I, "how many of them shells can be turned out
by--"
"S-s-s-sh!" says he, glancin' cautious at the omnibus-boy comin' to set
up our table.
"Eh?" says I, after we've been supplied with rolls and sweet butter and
ice water. "Why the panic?"
"Spies!" he whispers husky.
"What, him?" says I, starin' after the innocent-lookin' party in the white
apron.
"There's no telling," says Cecil. "One can't be too careful. And it will
be best, I think, for you to address me simply as Mr. Fothergill. As for
the--er--goods you are producing, you might speak of them
as--er--hams, you know."
I expect I gawped at him some foolish. Think of springin' all that
mystery dope right on Broadway! And, as I'm none too anxious to talk
about shells anyway, we don't have such a chatty luncheon. I'm just as
satisfied. I wanted time to think what I should exhibit as the main
works.
That Bayonne plant wa'n't much to look at, just a few sheds and a spur
track. I hadn't been to the Yonkers foundry, but I had an idea it wa'n't

much more impressive. Course, there was the joint on East 153d Street.
I knew that well enough, for I'd helped negotiate the lease.
It had been run by a firm that was buildin' some new kind of marine
motors, but had gone broke. Used to be a stove works, I believe.
Anyway, it's only a two-story cement-block affair, jammed in between
some car-barns on one side and a brewery on the other. Hot proposition
to trot out as the big end of a six-million-dollar contract! But it