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[Frontispiece: "But the impudence of you, to do it right here!" she
goes on. "No one but you, Torchy, would have thought of that."]

WILT THOU TORCHY

BY

SEWELL FORD

AUTHOR OF

TORCHY, TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC, ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

FRANK SNAPP AND ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1916, 1917, BY

SEWELL FORD

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY

EDWARD J. CLODE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. ON THE WAY WITH CYBIL
II. TOWING CECIL TO A SMEAR
III. TORCHY HANDS OUT A SPILL
IV. HOW HAM PASSED THE BUCK
V. WITH ELMER LEFT IN
VI. A BALANCE FOR THE BOSS
VII. TORCHY FOLLOWS A HUNCH
VIII. BREAKING ODD WITH MYRA
IX. REPORTING BLANK ON RUPERT
X. WHEN AUNTIE CRASHES IN
XI. A JOLT FROM OLD HICKORY
XII. TORCHY HITS THE HIGH SEAS
XIII. WHEN THE NAVY HORNED IN
XIV. AUNTIE TAKES A NIGHT OFF
XV. PASSING THE JOKE BUCK
XVI. TORCHY TAKES A RUNNING JUMP
XVII. A LITTLE SPEED ON THE HOME STRETCH

ILLUSTRATIONS

"But the impudence of you, to do it right here!" she goes on. "No one
but you, Torchy, would have thought of that." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

"I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before. She
seems right at home, fieldin' that line of chat. And Vee, too, is more
or less under the spell.

"For a second it looked like Gladys was goin' to freeze with horror;
but she just gives Valentina the once-over and indulges in a panicky
little giggle."

"Then she grips me around the neck and snuggles her head down on my
necktie--say, then I knew."

WILT THOU TORCHY

CHAPTER I

ON THE WAY WITH CECIL

It was a case of declarin' time out on the house. Uh-huh--a whole
afternoon. What's the use bein' a private sec. in good standin' unless
you can put one over on the time-clock now and then? Besides, I had a
social date; and, now Mr. Robert is back on the job so steady and is
gettin' so domestic in his habits, somebody's got to represent the
Corrugated Trust at these function things.

The event was the openin' of the Pill Box; you know, one of these dinky
little theaters where they do the capsule drama at two dollars a seat.
Not that I've been givin' my theatrical taste the highbrow treatment.
I'm still strong for the smokeless war play where the coised spy gets
his'n good and hard.

But I understand this one-act stuff is the thing to see just now, and
I'd picked up a hunch that Vee and Auntie had planned to be in on this
openin' until Auntie's sciatica developed so bad that they had to call
it off. So it's me makin' the timely play with a couple of seats in E
center and almost gettin' hugged for it. Even Auntie shoots me an
approvin' glance as she hands down a favorable decision.

So we sits through five acts of piffle that was mostly talky junk to
me. And, at that, I wa'n't sufferin' exactly; for when them actorines
got too weird, all I had to do was swing a bit in my seat and I had a
side view of a spiffy little white fur boa, with a pink ear-tip showin'
under a ripple of corn-colored hair, and a--well, I had something worth
watching that's all.

"Wasn't that last thing stupid?" says Vee.

"Didn't bother me any," says I. "Maybe I wa'n't followin' it real
close."

"The idea!" says, she. "Why come to the theater, anyway?"

"Lean closer and I'll whisper," says I.

"Silly!" says she. "Here! Have a chocolate."

"Toss," says I, openin' my mouth.

Vee snickers. "Suppose I missed and hit the fat man beyond?"

"It's a sportin' chance he takes," says I. "Shoot."

I had to bump Fatty a bit makin' the catch; but when he sees what the
game is, he comes back with the friendly grin.

"There!" says Vee, tintin' up. "Now behave."

"Sorry," says I, "but I had to field my position, didn't I? Once more,
now."

"Certainly not," says Vee. "Besides, there goes the curtain."

And if it hadn't been for interruptions like that we might have had a
perfectly good time. We generally do when we're let alone. To sort of
string the fun out I suggests goin' somewhere for tea. And it was
while we're swappin' josh over the toasted crumpets and marmalade that
we discovers a familiar-lookin' couple on the dancin' surface.

"Why, there's Doris!" says Vee.

"And the happy hubby!" I adds. "Hey, Westy! Come nourish yourself."

Maybe you remember that pair? Sappy Westlake, anyway. He's the noble,
fair-haired youth that for a long time Auntie had all picked out as the
chosen one for Vee, and he hung around constant until one lucky day Vee
had this Doris Ull come for a visit.

Kind of a pouty, peevish queen, Doris was, you know. Spoiled at home,
and the job finished at one of these flossy girls' boardin'-schools
where they get a full course in court etiquette and learn to call the
hired girl Smith quite haughty.

But she looked good to Westy, and, what with the help Vee and I gave
'em, they made a match of it. Months ago that must 'a' been, nearly a
year. So I signals a fray-juggler to pull up more chairs, and we has
quite a reunion.

Seems they'd been on a long honeymoon trip: done the whole Pacific
coast, stopped off a while at Banff, and worked hack home through
Quebec and the White Mountains. Think of all the carfares and tips to
bell-hops that means! He don't have to worry, though. Income is
Westy's middle name. All he knows about it is that there's a trust
company downtown somewheres that handles the estate and wishes on him
quarterly a lot more'n he knows how to spend. Beastly bore!

"What a wonderful time you two must have had!" says Vee.

Doris shrugs her shoulders.

"Sightseeing always gives me a headache," says she. "And in the
Canadian Rockies we nearly froze. I was glad to see New York again.
But one tires of hotel life. Thank goodness, our house is ready at
last. We moved in a week ago."

"Oh!" says Vee. "Then you're housekeeping?"

Doris nods. "It's quite thrilling," says she. "At ten-thirty every
morning I have the butler bring me Cook's list. Then I 'phone for the
things myself. That is, I've just begun. Let me see, didn't I put in
to-day's order in my--yes, here it is." And she fishes a piece of
paper out of a platinum mesh bag. "Think of our needing all that--just
Harold and me," she goes on.

"I should say so," says Vee, startin' to read over the items. "'Sugar,
two pounds; tea, two pounds--'"

"Cook leaves the amounts to me," explains Doris; "so I just order two
pounds of everything."

"Oh!" says Vee, readin' on. "'Butter, two pounds; eggs, two--' Do
they sell eggs that way, Doris?"

"Don't they?" asks Doris. "I'm sure I don't know."

"'Coffee, two pounds,'" continues Vee. "'Yeast cakes, two pounds--'
Why, wouldn't that be a lot of yeast cakes? They're such little
things!"

"Perhaps," says Doris. "But then, I sha'n't have to bother ordering
any more for a month, you see. Now, take the next item. 'Champagne
wafers, ten pounds.' I'm fond of those. But that is the only time I
broke my rule. See--'flour, two pounds; roast beef, two pounds,' and
so on. Oh, I mean to be quite systematic in my housekeeping!"

"Isn't she a wonder?" asks Westy, gazin' at her proud and mushy.

"I say, though, Vee," goes on Doris enthusiastic, "you must come home
with us for dinner to-night. Do!"

At which Westy nudges her and whispers something behind his hand.

"Oh, yes," adds Doris. "You too, Torchy."

Vee had to 'phone Auntie and get Doris to back her up before the
special dispensation was granted; but at six-thirty the four of us
starts uptown for this brownstone bird-cage of happiness that Westy has
taken a five-year lease of.

"Just think!" says Vee, as we unloads from the taxi. "You with a house
of your own, and managing servants, and--"

"Oh!" remarks Doris, as she pushes the button. "I do hope you won't
mind Cyril."

"Mind who?" says Vee.

"He--he's our butler," explains Westy. "I suppose he's a very good
butler, too--the man at the employment agency said he was; but--er--"

"I'm sure he is," puts in Doris, "even if he does look a little odd.
Then there is his name--Cyril Snee. Of course, Cyril doesn't sound
just right for a butler, does it? But Snee is so--so--"

"Isn't it?" says Vee. "I should call him Cyril."

"We started in that way," says Doris, "but he asked us not to; said he
preferred to be called Snee. It was unusual, and besides he had
private reasons. So 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 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 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 matinee, 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

TOWING CECIL TO A SMEAR

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 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?"

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