Wilt Thou Torchy. Ford Sewell

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.

      What do you guess, though? Here yesterday afternoon I leaves the office on the jump and chases up to the apartment house where Vee and Auntie are settled for the winter. My idea was that I might catch Vee comin' home from a shoppin' orgie, or the matinée, or something, and get a few minutes' conversation in the lobby.

      The elevator-boy says she's out, too, so it looks like I was a winner. I waits half an hour and she don't show up, and I'm just about to take a chance on ringin' up Auntie for information, when in she comes, chirky and smilin', with rose leaves sprinkled on both cheeks and her eyes sparklin'. Also she has a bundle of books under one arm.

      "Why the literature?" says I. "Goin' to read Auntie to sleep?"

      "There!" says she, poutin' cute. "I wasn't going to let anyone know. I've started in at college."

      "Wha-a-at!" says I. "You ain't never goin' to be a lady doctor or anything like that, are you?"

      "I am taking a course at Columbia," says Vee, "in domestic science. Doris is doing it, too. And such fun! To-day we learned how to make a bed—actually made it up, too. To-morrow I am going to boil potatoes."

      "Hel-lup!" says I. "You are? Say, how long does this last?"

      "It's a two-year course," says Vee.

      "Stick to it," says I. "That'll give me time to take lessons from Westy on how to get an income wished onto me."

      As it stands, though, Vee's got me distanced. Please, ain't somebody got a plute aunt to spare?

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

TOWING CECIL TO A SMEAR

       Table of Contents

      Just think! If it had turned out a little different I might have been called to stand on a platform in front of City Hall while the Mayor wished a Victoria Cross or something like that on me.

      No, I ain't been nearer the front than Third Avenue, but at that I've come mighty near gettin' on the firin' line, and the only reason I missed out on pullin' a hero stunt was that Maggie wa'n't runnin' true to form.

      It was like this. Here the other mornin', as I'm sittin' placid at my desk dictatin' routine correspondence into a wax cylinder that's warranted not to yank gum or smell of frangipani—sittin' there dignified and a bit haughty, like a highborn private sec. ought to, you know—who should come paddin' up to my elbow but the main wheeze, Old Hickory Ellins.

      "Son," says he, "can any of that wait?"

      "Guess it wouldn't spoil, sir," says I, switchin' off the duflicker.

      "Good!" says he. "I think I can employ your peculiar talents to better advantage for the next few hours. I trust that you are prepared to face the British War Office?"

      Suspectin' that he's about to indulge in his semi-annual josh, I only grins expectant.

      "We have with us this morning," he goes on, "one Lieutenant Cecil Fothergill, just arrived from London. Perhaps you saw him as he was shown in half an hour or so ago?"

      "The solemn-lookup gink with the long face, one wanderin' eye, and the square-set shoulders?" says I. "Him in the light tan ridin'-breeches and the black cutaway?"

      "Precisely," says Mr. Ellins.

      "Huh!" says I. "Army officer? I had him listed as a rail-bird from the Horse Show."

      "He presents credentials signed by General Kitchener," says Old Hickory. "He's looking up munition contracts. Not the financial end. Nor is he an artillery expert. Just exactly what he is here for I've failed to discover, and I am too busy to bother with him."

      "I get you," says I. "You want him shunted."

      Old Hickory nods.

      "Quite delicately, however," he goes on.

      "The Lieutenant seems to have something on his mind—something heavy. I infer that he wishes to do a little inspecting."

      "Oh!" says I.

      You see, along late in the summer, one of 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