Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed.

That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls.

But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how, but she is.

All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and then,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee, sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot evening to know that "among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona Hemmingway." Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--me here behind the bra.s.s rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin'

fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?

And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--just a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if there'd been one handy.

As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low, wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the name of the place printed underneath.

"Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's too bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I wonder what she'd say if----"

B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair behind the same old bra.s.s rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.

"Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.

"Said pins, dintcher?" says I.

"Why--er--yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."

"Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.

"Oh--er--Torchy," he adds.

"Well?" says I over my shoulder.

"Might one inquire," says he, "is it distress, or only disposition?"

"It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway," says I.

"Ah!" says he, sort of reflective. "Feeling the need of a half holiday, are you?"

"Humph!" says I. "What's the good of an afternoon off?"

He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin'

tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on another jaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I was him. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else who couldn't, the way he was doin' at me!

"Mr. Robert," says I, s.p.u.n.kin' up sudden, "what's the matter with me takin' a vacation?"

"Why," says he, "I--I presume it might be arranged. When would you wish to go?"

"When?" says I. "Why, now--tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stick out the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick of the shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!"

It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses I expect it would have won me a free pa.s.s to all outdoors. But I guess Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps his eyebrows humorous and chuckles.

"That's rather abrupt, isn't it?" says he. "But perhaps--er--just where is she now, Torchy?"

I grins back sheepish. "Coast of Maine," says I.

"Well, well!" says he. "Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, at least. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a good express, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!"

"Mr. Robert," says I, choky, "you--you're I-double-It with me. Thanks."

"My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Nedd.i.c.k, and Eggemoggen Reach,"

says he as we swaps grips.

Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out the symptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for I don't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet.

I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.

"Nothing doing," says the guy. "Give you Ba.s.s Rocks, Seal Rocks, or six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Any choice?"

"Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!" says I. "You got to have 'em. It says so on the card," and I shoves the postal at him.

"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck," says he. "Postmarked Boothbay Harbor, isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best I can do for you--drawing rooms all gone."

"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an upper," says I. "Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath."

Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale b.u.t.toned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though?

"What cute little village is this?" says I to Rastus in the washroom next mornin' about six-thirty A. M.

"Pohtland, Suh," says he. "Breakfast stop, Suh."

"Me for it, then," says I. "When in Maine be a maniac." So I tackles a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m!

They sure can build pie up there!

It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next joint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name.

Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from?

Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And, say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin'

every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.

"h.e.l.lo, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"

He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.

"Can't you read?" says he.

"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't see it from in here."

"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.

"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't it? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you who I am."

"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?"

"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor."

"Sho!" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human.