goes on Mortimer enthusiastic. "Say, he's a wonder! Been over here from Hungary only six years, worked his way through Columbia, copping an A. M. and an A. B., and sending back money to his old mother right along. He's a Socialist, or something, and writes for one of those East Side papers. Then evenings he teaches manual training in a slum settlement house. He took me over with him the other night and got me to help him with his boys. My, but they're a bright lot of youngsters--right off the street too! I've promised to take a cla.s.s myself."

"In what," says I, "table etiquette?"

"I'm going to start by explaining to them how a gasolene engine works,"

says Mortimer. "They're crazy to learn anything like that. It will be great sport."

"Mortimer," says I, "a little more of that, and I'll believe you're the guy that put the seed in succeed. Anyone wouldn't guess you was doin'

penance."

"I feel that I'm really living at last," says he in earnest.

So in that next report to Mother, after I'd thanked her for the last check and filled in the usual health chart and so on, I proceeds to throw in a few extras about how Son was makin' the great discovery that most folks was more or less human, after all. Oh, I spread myself on that part of it, givin' full details!

"And if that don't charm an extra five out of the old girl," thinks I, "I miss my guess."

Does it? Well, say, that happy thought stays with me for about ten days. At times I figured the bonus might be as high as a fifty. And then one mornin' here comes a ruddy-faced old party that I spots as Colonel Upton. He calls for Mortimer, and the two of 'em has a ten-minute chat in the corridor. Afterwards Morty interviews Miller, and when he comes out next he has his hat and overcoat with him.

"So long, Torchy," says he. "I'm leaving."

"Not for good!" says I. "What's wrong?"

"Mother," says he. "In some way she's found out about the sort of people I've been going around with, and she's kicked up a great row, got Father on the cable, and--well, it's all off. I'm to travel abroad for a year or so to get it out of my system."

"Gee!" says I as he goes out to join the Colonel. "Talk about b.o.o.bing a swell proposition! But that was too good to last, anyway. And, believe me, if I'm ever asked again to be friendly on a salary, I bet I don't overdo the thing."

CHAPTER V

BREEZING BY WITH PEGGY

He's a great old scout, Mr. Ellins. But he always knows where he wants to get off, all right. He don't whisper his ideas on the subject, either.

"Boy," says he the other mornin' as I answers the buzzer, "I am expecting two young persons to call this forenoon, two young wards of mine. Huh! Wards! As though I wasn't busy enough with my own affairs without---- But never mind. Chandler is the name."

"Yes, Sir," says I. "Chandler. Rush 'em right in, shall I?"

"No!" snorts Old Hickory. "What I want you to do is to use a little sense, if you have any. Now, here! I have a committee meeting at ten; those K. & T. people will be here at ten-forty-five; and after that I can't say whether I'll be free or not. Of course I must see the young nuisances; but meantime I want to forget 'em. I am trusting to you to work 'em in when they'll be the least bother."

"Got you," says I. "c.h.i.n.k in with Chandlers. Yes, Sir. Anything more?"

"No. Get out!" he snaps.

Fair imitation of a grouch, eh? But you got to get used to Old Hickory. Besides, there was some excuse for his bein' peeved, havin' a pair of kids camp down on him this way. Course I was wise to the other details. Didn't I take their 'phone message to Mr. Robert only the day before, and send back the answer for 'em to come on?

Seems this was a case of a second cousin, or something like that, a nutty college professor, who'd gone and left a will makin' Mr. Ellins a guardian without so much as askin' by your leave. There was a Mrs.

Chandler; but she don't figure in the guardianship. The youngsters had been in school somewhere near Boston; but, this bein' the holidays, what do they do but turn up in New York and express a wild desire to see dear old Guardy.

"Gee!" thinks I. "They don't know when they're well off."

For Old Hickory ain't got a lot of use for the average young person.

I've heard him express his sentiments on that point. "Impudent, ill-mannered, selfish, spoiled young barbarians, the boys," says he, "and the girls aren't much better,--silly, giggling young chatterboxes!"

And the way I has it framed up, this was rather a foxy move of the young Chandlers, discoverin' their swell New York relations just as the holiday season was openin'. So I don't figure that the situation calls for any open-arm motions on my part. No, nothin' like that. I'm here to give 'em their first touch of frost.

So about eleven-fifteen, as I glances across the bra.s.s rail and sees this pair advancin' sort of uncertain, I'm all prepared to cause a drop in the mercury. They wa'n't exactly the type I had in mind, though.

What I'd expected was a brace of high school cutups. But these two are older than that.

The young fellow was one of these big-boned, wide-shouldered chaps, with a heavy, serious look to his face, almost dull. I couldn't tell at first look whether he was a live wire or not. No such suspicions about the girl. She ain't what you'd call a queen, exactly. She's too tall and her face is too long for that. Kind of a cute sort of face, though, with rather a wide mouth that she can twist into a weird, one-sided smile. But after one look at them lively blue eyes you knew she wasn't walkin' in her sleep. It's my cue, though, to let 'em guess what nuisances they were.

"May I see Mr. Ellins?" says the young chap.

"Cards," says I.

He produces the pasteboards.

"Oh, yes!" I goes on. "The wards, eh? Marjorie Chandler, Dudley Winthrop Chandler. Well, you've picked out a busy day, you know."

"Oh, have we?" says Marjorie. "There, Dud! I was afraid we might.

Perhaps we'd better not call, after all."

"Good!" says Dudley. "I didn't want to, anyway. We can just send in our cards and leave word that we----"

"Ah, can it!" says I. "Mr. Ellins is expectin' you; only he ain't a man you can walk in on casual."

"But really," puts in Marjorie, "it's just as well if we don't see him."

"Yes, and get me fired for not carryin' out instructions," says I. "My orders are to work you in when there's a chance."

"Oh, in that case," says Marjorie, "perhaps we had better wait. We don't wish to cause trouble for anyone, especially such a bright, charming young----"

"Nix on the josh," says I. "And have a seat while I skirmish."

"Very well, then," says she, screwin' her face up cunnin' and handin'

me one of them crooked smiles.

Say, she pretty near had me goin' right from the start. And as I tiptoes into the boss's room I sees he ain't doin' anything more important than signin' letters.

"They're here," says I, "the wards. Is it all right to run 'em in now?"

He grunts, nods his head, and keeps on writin'. So I strolls back to the reception room.

"All right," says I. "I've fixed it up for you."

"Now, wasn't that sweet in you?" gurgles Marjorie, glancin' sideways at Brother. I couldn't swear it was a wink, either; but it's one of them knowin' fam'ly looks, and she follows it up with a ripply sort of a giggle.

"That's right!" says I. "Have all the fun you want with me; but I'd warn you to ditch the mirth stuff while you're on the carpet. Mr.

Ellins don't like it."