"You don't say!" says Mr. Robert. "Whe-e-ew! He and the governor having it hot and heavy, I suppose?"

"And then some," says I. "Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the second, and now he's trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten."

"Wha-a-at?" gasps Mr. Robert.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Mr. Ellins is layin' under the piano,--only seven, but stimied for an approach."

"In Heaven's name, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "what do you mean? Mr.

Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano--why----"

"Ah, didn't Piddie tell you? The b.o.o.b!" says I. "It's just golf, that's all--indoor kind--a batty variation that they made up themselves. But don't fret. Everything's all lovely, and I guess the Corrugated is saved. Come up and look 'em over."

Yep! Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth, after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs until their eyes leak. Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin' gla.s.ses real chummy.

"Son," says Old Hickory, as he pads into the office about noon next day, "I believe I forgot the usual caddie fee. There you are."

"Z-z-z-zing!" says I, starin' after him. Cute little strips of Treasury kale, them with the C's in the corners, aren't they? Well, I should worry!

CHAPTER VII

COMING IN ON THE DRAW

Nothin' like bein' a handy man around the shop. Here at the Corrugated I'm worked in for almost any old thing, from seein' that Mr. Ellins takes his gout tablets regular, to arrangin' the directors' room for the annual meeting and when it comes to subbin' for Mr. Robert--say, what do you guess is the latest act he bills me for? Art expert! Yep, A-r-t, with a big A!

Sounds foolish, don't it? But at that it wa'n't such a bad hunch on his part. He's a rash promiser, Mr. Robert is; but a shifty proposition when you try to push a programme on him, for the first thing you know he's slid from under. I suspicioned some play like that was comin' here the other afternoon when Sister Marjorie shows up at the general offices and asks pouty, "Where's Robert?"

"On the job," says I. "Session of the general sales agents today, you know."

"But he was to meet me at the Broadway entrance half an hour ago," says she, "and I've been sitting in the car waiting for him. Call him out, won't you, Torchy?"

"Won't do any good," says I. "He's booked up for the rest of the day."

"The idea!" says Marjorie. "And he promised faithfully he would go up with me to see those pictures! You just tell him I'm here, that's all."

There's more or less light of battle in them bright brown eyes of Marjorie's, and that Ellins chin of hers is set some solid. So when I tiptoes in where they're dividin' the map of the world into sellin'

areas, and whispers in Mr. Robert's ear that Sister Marjorie is waitin'

outside, I adds a word of warnin'.

"It's a case of pictures, you remember," says I.

"Oh, the deuce!" says Mr. Robert. "Hang Brooks Bladen and his paintings! I can't go, positively. Just explain, will you, Torchy?"

"Sure; but I'd go hoa.r.s.e over it," says I. "You know Marjorie, and if you don't want the meetin' broke up I expect you'd better come out and face the music."

"Oh, well, then I suppose I must," says he, leadin' the way.

And Marjorie wa'n't in the mood to stand for any smooth excuses. She didn't care if he had forgotten, and she guessed his old business affairs could be put off an hour or so. Besides, this meant so much to poor Brooks. His very first exhibit, too. Ferdy couldn't go, either.

Another one of his sick headaches. But he had promised to buy a picture, and Marjorie had hoped that Robert would like one of them well enough to----

"Oh, if that's all," puts in Mr. Robert, "then tell him I'll take one, too."

"But you can't buy pictures without seeing them," protests Marjorie.

"Brooks is too sensitive. He wants appreciation, encouragement, you see."

"A lot I could give him," says Mr. Robert. "Why, I know no more about that sort of thing than--well, than----" And just here his eye lights on me. "Oh, I say, though," he goes on, "it would be all right, wouldn't it, if I sent a--er--a commissioner?"

"I suppose that would do," says Marjorie.

"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "Torchy, go with Marjorie and look at that lot. If they're any good, buy one for me."

"Wha-a-at!" says I. "Me buy a picture?"

"Full power," says he, startin' back towards the meetin'. "Pick out the best, and tell Bladen to send me the bill."

And there we're left, Marjorie and me, lookin' foolish at each other.

"Well, he's done a duck," says I.

"If you mean he's got himself out of buying a picture, you're mistaken," says she. "Come along."

She insists on callin' the bluff, too. Course, I tries to show her, all the way up in the limousine, how punk a performer I'd be at a game like that, and how they'd spot me for a bush leaguer the first stab I made.

"Not at all," says Marjorie, "if you do as I tell you."

With that she proceeds to coach me in the art critic business. The lines wa'n't hard to get, anyway.

"For some of them," she goes on, "you merely go 'Um-m-m!' under your breath, you know, or 'Ah-h-h-h!' to yourself. Then when I give you a nudge you may exclaim, 'Fine feeling!' or 'Very daring!' or 'Wonderful technic, wonderful!'"

"Yes; but when must I say which?" says I.

"It doesn't matter in the least," says Marjorie.

"And you think just them few remarks," says I, "will pull me through."

"Enough for an entire exhibit at the National Academy," says she. "And when you decide which you like best, just point it out to Mr. Bladen."

"Gee!" says I. "Suppose I pick a lemon?"

"Robert won't know the difference," says she, "and it will serve him right. Besides, poor Brooks needs the encouragement."

"Kind of a dub beginner with no backing is he?" says I.

Marjorie describes him different. Accordin' to her, he's a cla.s.sy comer in the art line, with all kinds of talent up his sleeve and Fame busy just around the corner on a laurel wreath exactly his size. Seems Brooks was from a good fam'ly that had dropped their bundle somewhere along the road; so this art racket that he'd taken up as a time killer he'd had to turn into a steady job. He wa'n't paintin' just to keep his brushes soft. He was out to win the kale.

Between the lines I gathers enough to guess that before she hooked up with Ferdy, the head-achy one, Marjorie had been some mushy over Brooks boy herself. He'd done a full length of her, it appears, and was workin' up quite a portrait trade, when all of a sudden he ups and marries someone else, a rank outsider.