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I sings out, grabbin' him by the elbow and swingin' him out of the line of traffic. "This ain't no place to practice the maxixe." "I I beg oh, it's you, Torchy, is it?" says he, sighin' relieved. "Where do I go to send a telegram?"
In the middle of the second one though, there's a call for me to go into the private office, and when I comes back from a ten-minute interview with Old Hickory I finds Vee and Miss Casey chattin' away like old friends. Vee is being told all about Stubby and the hard-boiled eggs he has for company officers. "Three months without a furlough!" says Vee. "Isn't that a shame, Torchy?
"But there isn't anything to leave," says she, "not a shred! Sometime, though, I hope I may meet your Miss Vee. May I?" "I should guess!" says I. "Why, she thinks you're a star! We both do." "Thank you, Torchy," says she. "I'm glad someone approves of me. Good-by." And we shakes hands friendly at the door. It was long after five by that time; but I made a break back to the office.
Didn't tell you, did I, about Mallory's doin' the skyrocket act? After Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory's a two seasons' old football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that twelve-dollar-a-week filin' job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of two days. "Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy," says Mallory.
I finds it on my plate at dinner time; so both the old ladies was on hand when I opens it. "Why, Torchy!" says Aunt Martha, lookin' at me shocked and scandalized. "A young lady's picture!" "Yep," says I. "Ain't she a dream, though?" And, say, Martha'd been lecturin' me yet if it hadn't been for Zenobia breakin' in.
Robert, "it sounds like a real mystery, almost a case for a Sherlock Holmes." I don't know why, either, but just then he glances at me. "By Jove!" he goes on. "Here you are, Torchy. What do you make out of this?" "Me?" says I. "Just about what you do, I expect." "Oh, come!" says he. "Put that rapid fire brain of yours to work. Try him, Mr. Zosco.
When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like a bung in a beer keg. "Well, Torchy," says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, "I got it!" "Got what!" says I.
"Torchy," says Zenobia at last, "bring down from your room that little gold locket you've always had." And when Mr. Ballard has opened it and held the picture under the readin' light, he winds up the whole debate as to who's who. "It's Irene, of course," says he. "Poor girl! But she had her day, after all. Married a French army officer, you know, and for a while they were happy together.
And then here yesterday mornin', as I'm helping Old Hickory sort the mail, he picks out a letter from our Western manager and slits it open. "Hah!" says he, through his cigar. "I think this solves our problem, Torchy." "Yes, sir?" says I, gawpin'. "Call in that young humorist of yours from the bond room," says he. And I yanks Brink Hollis off the high stool impetuous.
"May I go with you? May I?" And as I tucked 'em into a taxi, Arabella and all, Vee whispers: "Torchy, if you're any good at all, you'll go straight and find out all about Daddums and just make them let him out!" "Eh?" says I. "Make 'em say, ain't that some life-sized order?" "Perhaps," says she. "But you needn't come to see us until you've found him. Good-by!" Just like that I got it!
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