Chapter 12

THE GLAD HAIL FOR TORCHY

I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omitted is lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination.

Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed. That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls. But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how, but she is.

All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and then,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee, sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot evening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona Hemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--me here behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin' fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?

And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--just a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if there'd been one handy.

As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low, wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the name of the place printed underneath.

"Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's too bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I wonder what she'd say if----"

B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair behind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.

"Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.

"Said pins, dintcher?" says I.

"Why--er--yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."

"Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.

"Oh--er--Torchy," he adds.

"Well?" says I over my shoulder.

"Might one inquire," says he, "is it distress, or only disposition?"

"It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway," says I.

"Ah!" says he, sort of reflective. "Feeling the need of a half holiday, are you?"

"Humph!" says I. "What's the good of an afternoon off?"

He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin' tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on another jaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I was him. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else who couldn't, the way he was doin' at me!

"Mr. Robert," says I, spunkin' up sudden, "what's the matter with me takin' a vacation?"

"Why," says he, "I--I presume it might be arranged. When would you wish to go?"

"When?" says I. "Why, now--tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stick out the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick of the shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!"

It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses I expect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors. But I guess Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps his eyebrows humorous and chuckles.

"That's rather abrupt, isn't it?" says he. "But perhaps--er--just where is she now, Torchy?"

I grins back sheepish. "Coast of Maine," says I.

"Well, well!" says he. "Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, at least. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a good express, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!"

"Mr. Robert," says I, choky, "you--you're I-double-It with me. Thanks."

"My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach," says he as we swaps grips.

Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out the symptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for I don't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet. I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.

"Nothing doing," says the guy. "Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, or six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Any choice?"

"Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!" says I. "You got to have 'em. It says so on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.

"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor, isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best I can do for you--drawing rooms all gone."

"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an upper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."

Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

"What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroom next mornin' about six-thirty A. M.

"Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."

"Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tackles a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m! They sure can build pie up there!

It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next joint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name. Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from? Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And, say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin' every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.

"Hello, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"

He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.

"Can't you read?" says he.

"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't see it from in here."

"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.

"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't it? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you who I am."

"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?"

"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor."

"Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.

"Happen to know Ira?" says I.

"Ought to," says he. "First cousins. You from Boston?"

"Why, Cap!" says I. "What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I look like I--but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr. Higgins."

"Gosh!" says he. "Ira always did have all the luck."

Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin' out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but scenery,--rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks.

"How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?" says I.

"Government files a new edge on it," says he. "They keep a gang that does nothin' else."

"Think of that!" says I. "I don't see any lobsters floatin' around, though."

"Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in flocks."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the painted posts stickin' up out of the water?"

"Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."

Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell 'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand. As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on Cunner Point, about three miles up."

"Can I get a trolley?" says I.

"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n Bath."

"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n Croesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to take you up.

"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet company. Now, if they was expectin' you----"

"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me ain't so chummy as we might be."

"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know," says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says he. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too."

"Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"

"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show me Eb," says I.

He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin' up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense of smell.

"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira, includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_! Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More perfume comin' my way!

"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.

"Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"

"You couldn't tell the difference," says I.

"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, and you git a premium."

"You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."

"Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holds out the plug invitin'.

"Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother I wouldn't."

"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps do when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----"

"Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month of this? Ah, say!"

After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine, run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back. By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not colored quite so vivid.

"Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.

They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin' a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too, "nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it, though.

And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday. Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and squats lower in the boat.

"Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?" says Eb, straightenin' up and wipin' his hands on his corduroys.

"Who's the party in the tennis outfit?" says I.

"Him?" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. "Must be young Hollister, that owns the mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, five more traps to haul, and we're through, Son."

"Let's go haul 'em, then," says I, grabbin' the flywheel.

Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footed up to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to the feathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level with my eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That was good dope too.

I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky by half. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for.

My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And, say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid! Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,--young chaps in white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old guys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressed sporty and comf'table--and more square feet of sunburn than would cover Union Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'.

As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wanders down there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and the big sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats dodgin' around in the choppy water. There's a crisp, salty breeze that's makin' the flags snap, the sun's shinin' bright, and take it altogether it's some brilliant scene. Only I'm on the outside peekin' in.

"What's the use?" thinks I. "I'm off my beat up here."

Fin'lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches was comin' in thick. I must have been there near an hour, swappin' never a word with anybody, and gettin' lonesomer by the minute, when in from the harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin' at the float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump. At the wheel I gets sight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on his face. Also he's wearin' a striped blazer.

"Young Hollister, maybe," thinks I. "And he's in for a smash."

Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it's a little late, for he's got a lot of headway. Honest, I didn't think it out. And I was achin' to butt into something. I jumped quick, grabbed the bow as it came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside the fenders without even scratchin' the varnish.

"Thanks, old chap," says he. "Saved me a bad bump there. I--I'm greatly obliged."

"You're welcome," says I. "You was steamin' in a little strong."

"I haven't handled the Vixen much myself," says he. "You see, our boatman's laid up,--sprained ankle,--and I had to come down from the Rocks for some gasolene."

"Oh! Roarin' Rocks?" says I.

"Yes," says he. "Where's that fool float tender?"

"Just gone into the clubhouse," says I. "Maybe I could keep her from bumpin' while you're gone."

"By Jove! would you?" says he, handin' over a boathook.

Even then I wasn't layin' any scheme. I helps when they puts the gas in, and makes myself generally useful. Also I'm polite and respectful, which seems to make a hit with him.

"Deuced bother," says he, "not having any man. I had a picnic planned for today too."

"That so?" says I. "Well, I'm no marine engineer, but I'm just killin' time around here, and if I could help any way----"

"Oh, I say, but that's jolly of you," says he, "I wonder if you would, for a day or so? My name's Hollister, Payne Hollister."

He wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes me into it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a little round canvas hat with "Vixen" on the front, and trots back uptown to buy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quick change for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about the yachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions of a classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.