Torchy and Vee | Page 3

and he owned a classy
place over near the Country Club. But he had a 44 belt, a chin like a
pelican, and he was so short of breath that everybody called him
"Puffy" Biggles. Besides, he was fifty.
"A hot old Romeo he'd make for a nice girl like that," says I. "Is he her
best bet? Ain't there any second choice?"
"There was another," says Vee. "Rather a nice chap, too--that Mr.
Ellery Prescott, who played the organ so well and was some kind of a
broker. You remember?"
"Sure!" says I. "The one who pulled down a captain's commission at
Plattsburg. Did she have him on the string?"
"They had been friends for a long time," says Vee. "Were as good as

engaged once; though how he managed to see much of Marion I can't
imagine, with Mr. Gray so crusty toward him. You see, he didn't play
chess. Anyway, he finally gave up. I suppose he's at the front now, and
even if he ever should come back---- Well, Marion seldom mentions
him. I'm sure, though, that they thought a good deal of each other. Poor
thing! She was crazy to go across as a canteen worker. And now she
doesn't know what to do. Of course, there's always Biggles. If we could
only save her from that!"
At which remark I grows skittish. I didn't like the way she was gazin' at
me. "Ah, come, Vee!" says I. "Lay off that rescue stuff. Adoptin'
female orphans of over thirty, or matin' 'em up appropriate is way out
of my line. Suppose we pass resolutions of regret in Marion's case, and
let it ride at that?"
"At least," goes on Vee, "we can do a little something to cheer her up.
Mrs. Robert Ellins has asked her for dinner tomorrow night. Us too."
"Oh, I'll go that far," says I, "although the last I knew about the
Ellinses' kitchen squad, it's takin' a chance."
I was some little prophet, too. I expect Mrs. Robert hadn't been havin'
much worse a time with her help than most folks, but three cooks inside
of ten days was goin' some. Lots of people had been longer'n that
without any, though. But when any pot wrestler can step into a
munition works or an airplane factory and pull down her three or four
dollars a day for an eight-hour shift, what can you expect?
Answer: What we got that night at the Ellinses'. The soup had been
scorched once, but it had been cooled off nicely before it got to us. The
fish had been warmed through--barely. And the roast lamb tasted like it
had been put through an embalmin' process. But the cookin' was high
art compared to the service, for since their butler had quit to become a
crack riveter in a shipyard they've been havin' maids do their plate
jugglin'.
And this wide-built fairy, with the eyes that didn't track, sure was
constructed for anything but glidin' graceful around a dinner table. For

one thing, she had the broken-arch roll in her gait, and when she pads
in through the swing-door she's just as easy in her motion as a cow
walkin' the quarter-deck with a heavy sea runnin'. Every now and then
she'd scuff her toe in the rug, and how some of us escaped a soup or a
gravy bath I can't figure out. Maybe we were in luck.
Also, she don't mind reachin' in front of you and sidewipin' your ear
with her elbow. Accidents like that were merry little jokes to her.
"Ox-cuse me, Mister!" she'd pipe out shrill and childish, and then
indulged in a maniac giggle that would get Mrs. Robert grippin' the
chair arms.
She liked to be chatty and folksy while she was servin', too. Her motto
seemed to be, "Eat hearty and give the house a good name." If you
didn't, she tried to coax you into it, or it into you.
"Oh, do have some more of th' meat, Miss," she says to Vee. "And
another potato, now. Just one more, Miss."
And all Mrs. Robert can do is pink up, and when she's out of hearin'
apologize for her. "As you see," says Mrs. Robert, "she is hardly a
trained waitress."
"She'd make a swell auctioneer, though," I suggests.
"No doubt," says Mrs. Robert. "And I suppose I am fortunate enough to
have anyone in the kitchen at all, even to do the cooking--such as it is."
"You ain't lonesome in feelin' that way," says I. "It seems to be a
general complaint."
Which brings out harrowin' tales of war-wrecked homes, where no
buttling had been done for months, where chauffeurs and gardeners
were only represented by stars on the service flag, and from which even
personal maids