Wilt Thou Torchy. Ford Sewell

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 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,"