Torchy as a Pa | Page 9

humanity who flags under the
name of Bean and pretends to be a portrait painter. She goes into details
about the mental anguish that has almost prostrated her since she
discovered the fiendish assault on her privacy, and she announces how
she has begun action for criminal libel and started suit for damages to
the tune of half a million dollars.
Well, you've seen what the papers did to that bit of news. They sure did

play it up, eh? The Psyche picture, with all its sketchy draperies, was
printed side by side with half tones of the Countess Zecchi. And of
course they didn't neglect F. Hallam Bean. He has to be photographed
and interviewed, too. Also, Hallam wasn't dodgin' either a note-book or
a camera. As a result he is mentioned as "the well-known portrait
painter of Greenwich Village," and so on. One headline I remember
was like this: "Founder of American Revertist School Sued for Half
Million."
I expect I kidded Mr. Robert more or less about his artist friend. He
don't know quite how to take it, Mr. Robert. In one way he feels kind of
responsible for Hallam, but of course he ain't worried much about the
damage suit. The Countess might get a judgment, but she'd have a swell
time collectin' anything over a dollar forty-nine, all of which she must
have known as well as anybody. But she was gettin' front page space.
So was F. Hallam. And the soap firm was runnin' double shifts fillin'
new orders.
Then here one afternoon, as Mr. Robert and me are puttin' the finishin'
touches to a quarterly report, who should drift into the Corrugated
general offices but F. Hallam Bean, all dolled up in an outfit that he
must have collected at some costumers. Anyway, I ain't seen one of
them black cape coats for years, and the wide-brimmed black felt hat is
a curio. Also he's gone back to the flowin' necktie and is lettin' his hair
grow wild again.
"Well, well!" says I. "Right off the boulevard, eh?"
"Why the masquerade?" demands Mr. Robert.
He don't seem a bit disturbed at our josh, but just smiles sort of
satisfied and superior. "I suppose it is different," says he, "but then, so
am I. I've just been having some new photos taken. They're to be used
with an article I'm contributing to a Sunday paper. It is to be entitled,
'What is a Revertist?' They are paying me $100 for it. Not bad, eh!"
"Pretty soft, I'll say," says I. "Soak 'em while the soakin's good."

"Still getting on well with your job?" asked Mr. Robert.
"Oh, I've chucked that," says Hallam airy. "No more of that degrading
grind for me. I've arrived, you know."
"Eh?" gasps Mr. Robert. "Where?"
"Why," says F. Hallam, "don't you understand what has happened
during these last two weeks? Fame has found me out. I am known as
the founder of a new school of art--the original Revertist. My name has
become a household word. And before this absurd libel suit is finished
I shall be painting the portraits of all the leading society people. They
are already asking about me, and as soon as I find a suitable studio--I'm
considering one on West 59th Street, facing Central Park--I shall be
overwhelmed with orders. It's bound to come."
"You're quite sure this is fame, are you?" asks Mr. Robert.
F. Hallam smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "Quite," says he.
And Mr. Robert can't tell him it's anything else. Hasn't he got his
pockets full of newspaper clippings to prove it? Don't people turn and
stare after him in the street and nudge each other in the subway cars?
Aren't his artist friends giving him a banquet at the Purple Pup? So why
should he work for wages any more, or save up any of the easy money
that's coming his way? And he sails out indignant, with his cape
overcoat swayin' grand from his narrow shoulders.
"I give him up, Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "That is, unless you can
suggest some way of making him see what an ass he is. Come, now!"
"All right," says I, gettin a sudden hunch. "I don't know as it will work
in his case, for he's got it bad, but suppose we tow him out for a look at
Private Ben Riggs?"
"By George!" says Mr. Robert, slappin' his knee. "The very thing.
Sunday, eh?"

It was easy enough stagin' the affair. All he had to do was to ask the
Beans out for the week-end, and then after Sunday dinner load 'em into
the tourin' car, collect me, and drive off about 20 miles or so to the
south shore of Long Island.
Maybe, though, you don't remember about Private Ben Riggs? Oh,