On With Torchy Part 38

"Sounds stormy," says I.

"You're quite right," says he. "But it's a little gem of a place that young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once.

It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody."

"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect," says I.

"Humph!" says he, tossin' the bra.s.s paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top. "They ought to be, I will admit; but--oh, hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She--she's being abused."

"Well, what do you know!" says I. "You don't mean he's begun draggin'

her around by the hair, or----"

"Don't!" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. "I can't tell.

Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do until--until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must send you, young man."

"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first poke I'd be----"

"You misunderstand," says he. "That poke part I can attend to very well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I--well, I might not be a very patient investigator. You see, don't you?"

"Might blow a gasket, eh?" says I. "And you want me to go up and scout around. But what if I'm caught at it--am I peddlin' soap, or what?"

"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent," says he.

"Can you suggest anything?"

"Why," says I, "I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a train and was----"

"Too theatrical," objects Mr. Robert.

"Or a guy come to test the gas meter," I goes on.

"Nonsense!" says he. "No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise.

They both know you, remember."

"Oh, well," says I, "if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,--a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or----"

"That's it--orchids!" breaks in Mr. Robert. "Robbie expects a bunch from me about every so often. The very thing!"

So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr.

Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back, anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in.

"Poor little girl!" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. "Poor little Robbie!"

Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to b.u.t.t in on a Keno curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride.

Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent.

Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin'

the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak like this!

"But wait!" thinks I. "If I can get anything on him, he sure will have it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done too."

You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.

But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's diff'rent--smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish pool,--almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd windows, and wide, cozy verandas,--just the spot where you'd think a perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.

I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a b.u.t.terfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels, and has come a runnin'.

"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?

"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."

"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?" says she.

"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."

"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that she, sheds the b.u.t.terfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps, and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash.

"There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy steps back and forth.

"All right, I guess," says I.

"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?"

"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids."

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud!

He's such fun!"

"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.

"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish Nick would ask them both up."

"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"

"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone.

But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up, though.

"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.

"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going back tonight, are you?"

"Can't," says I. "No train."

"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and startin' to run me across the yard.

"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"

"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides, there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will with you. Come on."

"I never did much putting," says I.