Torchy As A Pa, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  WHEN HALLAM WAS RUNG UP

  It ain't often Mr. Robert starts something he can't finish. When hedoes, though, he's shifty at passin' it on. Yes, I'll say he is. For insuch cases I'm apt to be the one that's handiest, and you know what thatmeans. It's a matter of Torchy being joshed into tacklin' any oldproposition that may be batted up, with Mr. Robert standin' by ready tospring the grin.

  Take this little go of his with the Hallam Beans--excuse me, the F.Hallam Beans. Doesn't that sound arty? Well, that's what they were, thispair. Nothing but. I forget where it was they drifted in from, but ofcourse they couldn't have found each other anywhere but in GreenwichVillage. And in course of time they mated up there. It was the logical,almost the brilliant thing to do. Instead of owing rent for two skylightstudios they pyramided on one; besides, after that each one could borrowthe makin's off the other when the cigarettes ran out, and if there camepea-green moments when they doubted whether they were real geniuses ornot one could always buck up the other.

  If they had stuck to the Village I expect we'd never heard anythingabout them, but it seems along early last spring F. Hallam had a strokeof luck. He ran across an old maid art student from Mobile who was upfor the summer and was dyin' to get right into the arty atmosphere. Alsoshe had $300 that her grip wasn't any too tight on, and before she knewit F. Hallam had sub-let the loft to her until Sept. 15, payable inadvance. Two days later the Beans, with more'n half of the loot left,were out on Long Island prospectin' around in our locality and talkingvague about taking a furnished bungalow. They were shown some neat ones,too, runnin' from eight to fifteen hundred for three months, but none of'em seemed to be just right. But when they discovered this partlytumbled down shack out on a back lane beyond Mr. Robert Ellinses' bigplace they went wild over it. Years ago some guy who thought he wasgoin' to get rich runnin' a squab farm had put it up, but he'd quit thegame and the property had been bought up by Muller, our profiteerin'provision dealer. And Muller didn't do a thing but soak 'em $30 a monthrent for the shack, that has all the conveniences of a cow shed in it.

  But the Beans rented some second-hand furniture, bought some oil lampsand a two-burner kerosene stove, and settled down as happy and contentedas if they'd leased a marble villa at Newport. From then on you'd beliable to run across 'em most anywhere, squattin' in a field or alongthe back roads with their easels and paint brushes, daubin' awayindustrious.

  You might know it would be either Mrs. Robert or Vee who would pick 'emup and find out the whole story. As a matter of fact it was both, forthey were drivin' out after ferns or something when they saw the Beansperched on a stone wall tryin' to unbutton a can of sardines with apalette knife and not having much success. You know the kind of peoplewho either lose the key to a sardine can or break off the tab and thengaze at it helpless! That was them to the life.

  And when Mrs. Robert finds how they're livin' chiefly on dry groceriesand condensed milk, so's to have more to blow in on dinky little tubesof Chinese white and Prussian blue and canvas, of course she has to getbusy slippin' 'em little trifles like a dozen fresh eggs, a mess ofgreen peas and a pint of cream now and them. She follows that up byhavin' 'em come over for dinner frequent. Vee has to do her share too,chippin' in a roast chicken or a cherry pie or a pan of doughnuts, sobetween the two the Hallam Beans were doin' fairly well. Hallam, hecomes back generous by wishin' on each of 'em one of his masterpieces.The thing he gives us Vee hangs up over the livin' room mantelpiece,right while he's there.

  "Isn't that perfectly stunning, Torchy?" she demands.

  "I expect it is," says I, squintin' at it professional, "but--but justwhat is it supposed lo be?" And I turns inquirin' to F. Hallam.

  "Why," says he, "it is a study of afternoon light on a group of willows.We are not Futurists, you see; Revertists, rather. Our methods--at leastmine--are frankly after the Barbizon school."

  "Yeauh!" says I, noddin' wise. "I knew one once who could do swelldesigns on mirrors with a piece of soap."

  "I beg pardon," says Hallam. "One what?"

  "A barber's son," says I. "I got him a job as window decorator, too."

  But somehow after that Hallam sort of shies talkin' art with me. Atouchy party, F. Hallam. The least little thing would give him thesulks. And even when he was feelin' chipper his face was long enough. Asa floorwalker in a mournin' goods shop he'd be a perfect fit. But youcouldn't suggest anything that sounded like real work to Hallam. Heclaims that he was livin' for his art. Maybe so, but I'll be hanged ifhe was livin' on it. I got to admit, though, that he dressed the partfairly well; for in that gray flannel shirt and the old velvet coat andthe flowin' black tie, and with all that stringy, mud-colored hairfallin' around his ears, he couldn't be mistaken for anything else. Evena movie audience would have spotted him as an artist without a leader tothat effect.

  Mrs. Hallam Bean was a good runnin' mate for him, for she has her hairboxed and wears paint-smeared smocks. Only she's a shy actin', quietlittle thing, and real modest. There's no doubt whatever but that shehas decided that F. Hallam is going to be a great painter some day. Whenshe ain't sayin' as much she's lookin' it; and Hallam, I suspect, isalways ready to make the vote unanimous.

  I judged from a few remarks of Mr. Robert's that he wasn't quite asstrong for the Hallams as Mrs. Robert was, but seein' 'em around so muchhe couldn't help gettin' more or less interested in the business end oftheir career.

  "Yes," says he, "they seem to be doing fairly well this summer; but howabout next winter, when they go back to town? You know they can'tpossibly sell any of those things. How are they going to keep fromstarving?"

  Mrs. Robert didn't know. She said she'd mention the matter to F. Hallam.And she found he wasn't worrying a bit. His plans were vague enough. Hewas doing a head of Myrtle--that being Mrs. Bean--which he thought hemight let some magazine have as a cover picture. And then, other thingswere bound to turn up. They always had, you know.

  But toward the end of the season the Beans got shabbier than ever.Myrtle's smocks were torn and stained, with a few cigarette burns hereand there, and her one pair of walking boots were run over at the heeland leaky in the sole. As for Hallam, that velvet coat had so manygrease spots on it that it was hardly fit to wear outside of a stable,and his rubber-soled shoes gave his toes plenty of air. The Beansadmitted that their finances were down to the zero point and they had tobe asked in for dinner at least three times a week to keep 'em frombein' blue in the gills.

  "Hang it all!" says Mr. Robert, "the fellow ought to have a regular jobof some kind. I suppose he can draw after a fashion. I'll see what I cando."

  And by rustlin' around among his friends he finds one who runs a bigadvertisin' agency and can place another man in the art department.You'd 'most thought F. Hallam would have been tickled four ways at theprospect of draggin' down a pay envelope reg'lar and being able to lookthe rent agent in the face. But say, what does he do but scrape his footand wriggle around like he'd been asked to swallow a non-skid headachetablet. At last he gets out this bleat about how he'd always held hisart to be too sacred a thing for him to commercialize and he reallydidn't know whether he could bring himself to drawin' ad. pictures ornot. He'd have to have time to think it over.

  "Very well," says Mr. Robert, restrainin' himself from blowin' a fuse aswell as he could. "Let me know tomorrow night. If you decide to take theplace, come over about 6:30; if you find that your views as to thesacredness of your art are too strong, you needn't bother to arriveuntil 8:30--after dinner."

  I expect it was some struggle, but Art must have gone down for the fullcount. Anyway the Beans were on hand when the tomato bisque was servednext evenin', and in less'n a week F. Hallam was turnin' out a perfectlygood freehand study of a lovely lady standin' graceful beside aNever-smoke oil stove--no-wicks, automatic feed, send for ourcatalogue--and other lively compositions along that line. More'n that,he made good and the boss promised him that maybe in a month or so he'dturn him loose with his oil paints on something big, a ful
l page incolor, maybe, for a leadin' breakfast food concern. Then the Beans movedback to town and we heard hardly anything more about 'em.

  I understand, though, that they sort of lost caste with their old crowdin Greenwich Village. Hallam tried to keep up the bluff for a while thathe wasn't workin' reg'lar, but his friends began to suspect. Theynoticed little things, like the half pint of cream that was left everymorning for the Beans, the fact that Hallam was puttin' on weight andgettin' reckless with clean collars. And finally, after being caughtcoming from the butcher's with two whole pounds of lamb chops, Myrtlebroke down and confessed. They say after that F. Hallam was a changedman. He had his hair trimmed, took to wearin' short bow ties, and whenhe dined at the Purple Pup, sneaked in and sat at a side table like anytourist from the upper West Side.

  Course, on Sundays and holidays he put on the old velvet coat, and setup his easel and splashed away with his paints. But mostly he did headsof Myrtle, and figure stuff. It was even hinted that he hired models.

  It must have been on one of his days home that this Countess Zecchiperson discovered him in his old rig. She'd been towed down there on aslummin' party by a club friend of Mr. Robert's who'd heard of Hallamand had the address. You remember hearin' about the Countess, maybe? Shewas Miss Mae Collins, of Kansas City, originally, and Zecchi was eitherthe second or third of her hubbies, or hobbies, whichever you'd care tocall 'em. A lively, flighty female, Countess Zecchi, who lives in aspecially decorated suite at the Plutoria, sports a tiger cub as a pet,and indulges in other whims that get her more or less into thespotlight.

  Her particular hunch on this occasion was that she must have herportrait done by a real Bohemian artist, and offhand she gives F. Hallamthe job.

  "You must paint me as Psyche," says she. "I've always wanted to be doneas Psyche. Can't we have a sitting tomorrow?"

  Hallam was almost too thrilled for words, but he managed to gasp outthat she could. So he reports sick to his boss, blows in all his sparecash buyin' a big mirror and draperies to fix up a Psyche pool in thestudio, and decides that at last luck has turned. For three days theCountess Zecchi shows up reg'lar, drapes herself in pink tulle, andHallam paints away enthusiastic.

  Then she don't come any more. For a week she stalls him off and finallytells him flat that posing as Psyche bores her. Besides, she's juststarting south on a yachting party. The portrait? Oh, she doesn't careabout that. She hadn't really given him a commission, just told him hemight paint her. And he mustn't bother her by calling up again.Positively.

  So Hallam hits the earth with a dull thud. He reports back on theadvertisin' job and groans every time he thinks how much he spent on themirror and big canvas. He'd been let in, that's all. But he finishes upthe Psyche picture durin' odd times. He even succeeded in unloadin' iton some dealer who supplies the department stores, so he quits aboutsquare.

  Then an odd thing happens. At the advertisin' agency there's a call froma big customer for a picture to go with a Morning Glory soap ad. It's arush order, to be done in six colors. Hallam has a bright littlethought. Why wouldn't his Psyche picture fit in? The boss thinks it'sworth lookin' up, and an hour later he comes back from the dealer's withthe trade all made. And inside of three weeks no less than two dozenmagazines was bindin' in a full page in colors showin' the fair form ofthe Countess Zecchi bendin' over a limpid pool tryin' to fish out a cakeof Morning Glory soap. It was a big winner, that ad. The soap firmordered a hundred thousand copies struck off on heavy plate paper, andif you sent in five wrappers with a two-cent stamp you'd be mailed acopy to tack up in the parlor.

  Whether or not the general public would have recognized the CountessZecchi as the girl in the soap ad. if she'd kept still about it is aquestion. Most likely it wouldn't. But the Countess didn't keep still.That wasn't her way. She proceeds to put up a holler. The very day shediscovers the picture, through kind friends who almost swamped her withcut-out copies and telegrams, she rushes back to New York and calls upthe reporters. All one afternoon she throws cat fits for their benefitup at her Plutoria apartment. She tells 'em what a wicked outrage hasbeen sprung on her by a wretched shrimp of humanity who flags under thename of Bean and pretends to be a portrait painter. She goes intodetails about the mental anguish that has almost prostrated her sinceshe discovered the fiendish assault on her privacy, and she announceshow she has begun action for criminal libel and started suit for damagesto the tune of half a million dollars.

  Well, you've seen what the papers did to that bit of news. They sure didplay it up, eh? The Psyche picture, with all its sketchy draperies, wasprinted side by side with half tones of the Countess Zecchi. And ofcourse they didn't neglect F. Hallam Bean. He has to be photographed andinterviewed, too. Also, Hallam wasn't dodgin' either a note-book or acamera. As a result he is mentioned as "the well-known portrait painterof 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. Hedon't know quite how to take it, Mr. Robert. In one way he feels kind ofresponsible for Hallam, but of course he ain't worried much about thedamage suit. The Countess might get a judgment, but she'd have a swelltime collectin' anything over a dollar forty-nine, all of which she musthave known as well as anybody. But she was gettin' front page space. Sowas F. Hallam. And the soap firm was runnin' double shifts fillin' neworders.

  Then here one afternoon, as Mr. Robert and me are puttin' the finishin'touches to a quarterly report, who should drift into the Corrugatedgeneral offices but F. Hallam Bean, all dolled up in an outfit that hemust have collected at some costumers. Anyway, I ain't seen one of themblack cape coats for years, and the wide-brimmed black felt hat is acurio. Also he's gone back to the flowin' necktie and is lettin' hishair 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 ofsatisfied and superior. "I suppose it is different," says he, "butthen, so am I. I've just been having some new photos taken. They're tobe used with an article I'm contributing to a Sunday paper. It is to beentitled, 'What is a Revertist?' They are paying me $100 for it. Notbad, 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 degradinggrind for me. I've arrived, you know."

  "Eh?" gasps Mr. Robert. "Where?"

  "Why," says F. Hallam, "don't you understand what has happened duringthese last two weeks? Fame has found me out. I am known as the founderof a new school of art--the original Revertist. My name has become ahousehold word. And before this absurd libel suit is finished I shall bepainting the portraits of all the leading society people. They arealready asking about me, and as soon as I find a suitable studio--I'mconsidering one on West 59th Street, facing Central Park--I shall beoverwhelmed 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 hispockets full of newspaper clippings to prove it? Don't people turn andstare 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 whyshould he work for wages any more, or save up any of the easy moneythat's coming his way? And he sails out indignant, with his capeovercoat swayin' grand from his narrow shoulders.

  "I give him up, Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "That is, unless you cansuggest 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 willwork in his case, for he's got it bad, but suppose we tow him out for alook at Private Ben Riggs?"

  "By George!" says Mr. Robert, slappin' his knee. "The very thing.Sunday, eh?"
<
br />   It was easy enough stagin' the affair. All he had to do was to ask theBeans out for the week-end, and then after Sunday dinner load 'em intothe tourin' car, collect me, and drive off about 20 miles or so to thesouth shore of Long Island.

  Maybe, though, you don't remember about Private Ben Riggs? Oh, of coursethe name still sticks. It's that kind of a name. But just what was it hedid? Uh-huh! Scratchin' your head, ain't you? And yet it was less thantwo years ago that he was figurin' more prominent in the headlines thananybody else you could name, not barrin' Wilson or Von Hindenburg.

  One of our first war heroes, Ben Riggs was, and for nearly two weeksthere he had the great American people shoutin' themselves hoarse in hishonor, as you might say. There was editorials, comparin' his stunt towhat Dewey did at Manila Bay, or Hobson at Santiago, and showin' howPrivate Ben had a shade the best of it, after all. The Sundayillustrated sections had enlarged snapshots of him, of his boyhood homein Whositville; of his dear old mother who made that classic remark,"Now, wasn't that just like Ben"; and of his girlish sweetheart, who wascashier at the Acme Lunch and who admitted that "she always had knownBen was going to be a great man some day."

  Then when the governor of Ben's state worked his pull and got Ben senthome right in the midst of it all there was another grandhooray--parades, banquets and so on. And they raised that testimonialfund for him to buy a home with, and presented him with a gold medal.Next, some rapid firin' publishin' firm rushed out a book: "Private BenRigg's Own Story," which he was supposed to have written. And then, too,he went on in a vaudeville sketch and found time to sign a moviecontract with a firm that was preparin' to screen his big act, "True ToLife."

  It was along about that stage that Private Ben, with more money in thebank than he'd ever dreamed came from all the mints, got this greatscheme in his nut that a noble plute like him ought to have a bigestate somewhere and build a castle on it. So he comes out here on thesouth shore, lets a real estate shark get hold of him, and the nextthing he knows he owns about a hundred acres of maybe the most worthlessland on the whole island. His next move is to call in an architect, andinside of a month a young army of laborers was layin' the foundationsfor what looked like a city hall, but was really meant to be RiggsmereManor, with 78 rooms, 23 baths, four towers, and a dinin' room 65 feetlong and a ceiling 16 feet in the clear.

  Then the slump came. I forget whether it was a new hero, or anothersubmarine raid. Anyway, the doings of Private Ben Riggs ceased to bereported in the daily press. He dropped out of sight, like a nickel thatrolls down a sewer openin'. They didn't want him any more in vaudeville.The movie producer welched on his proposition. The book sales fell offsudden. The people that wanted to name cigars or safety razors afterhim, or write songs about him, seemed to forget.

  For a few days Private Ben couldn't seem to understand what hadhappened. He went around in a kind of a daze. But he had sense enoughleft to stop work on the Manor, countermand orders for materials, andpull out with what he could. It wasn't such a great pile. There was aconstruction shed on the property, fairly well built, and by running upa chimney and having a well sunk, he had what passed for a home. Therein the builder's shack Private Ben has been living ever since. He hasstuck up a real estate sign and spends most of his time layin' out hisacres of sand and marsh into impossible buildin' lots. As he's way offon a back road, few people ever come by, but he never misses a chance oftacklin' those that do and tryin' to wish a buildin' plot on 'em. That'show we happen to know him so well, and to have kept up with his career.

  On the way out we sort of revived F. Hallam Bean's memories of PrivateBen Riggs. First off he thought Ben had something to do with the BarbaraFreitchie stunt, or was he the one who jumped off Brooklyn Bridge? Butat last he got it straight. Yes, he remembered having had a picture ofPrivate Ben tacked up in his studio, only last year. Then we tried himon Jack Binns, and Sergeant York and Lieutenant Blue and Dr. Cook. Heknew they'd all done something or other to make the first page, but hisguesses were kind of wide.

  "I would like to see Private Ben, though," says F. Hallam. "Must be aninteresting chap."

  "He is," says Mr. Robert. "His scrap books are interesting, too. He hasten of them."

  "By Jove!" says Hallam. "Good idea. I must tell Myrtle about that."

  But after we'd been hailed by this lonesome lookin' party in baggy pantsand the faded blue yachtin' cap, and we'd let him lead us past the stonefoundations where a fine crop of weeds was coming up, and he'd herdedus into his shack and was tryin' to spring a blueprint prospectus on us,F. Hallam sort of put his foot in his mouth by remarkin':

  "So you are Private Ben Riggs, are you?"

  "I was--once," says he. "Now I'm just Sand-Lot Riggs. Who are you?"

  "Oh, pardon me," puts in Mr. Robert. "I thought you would know. This isMr. Hallam Bean, the celebrated founder of the Revertist school of art."

  "Oh, yes!" said Riggs. "The one who painted the corset picture ad."

  "Soap picture," I corrects hasty, "featurin' the Countess Zecchi."

  "That's so, it was soap," admits Riggs. "And I was noticin' in themornin' paper how the Countess had decided to drop them suits."

  "What?" says Hallam, starin' at him. "Where was that? On the frontpage?"

  "No," says Riggs. "It was a little item on the inside mixed up with theobituary notes. That's always the way. They start you on the front page,and then----" Private Ben shrugs his shoulders. But he proceeds to addhasty, with a shrewd squint at Hallam: "Course, it's different with you.Say, how about buyin' the estate here? I'd be willin' to let it gocheap."

  "No, thank you," says F. Hallam, crisp.

  "Part of it then," insists Riggs. "I'd been meanin' to write you aboutit. I generally do write 'em while--while they're on the front."

  "No," says Hallam, and edges toward the door.

  He seemed to get the idea. Before he starts back for town that night heasks Mr. Robert if he could say a word for him at the advertisin'agency, as he thought it might be just as well if he hung onto the job.It wasn't such a poor thought, for Hallam fades out of public view agood deal quicker than he came in.

  "Maybe it wasn't Fame that rung him up, after all," I suggests to Mr.Robert.

  He nods. "It might have been her step-sister, Notoriety," says he.

  "Just what's the difference?" says I.

  Mr. Robert rubs his chin. "Some old boy whose name I've forgotten, putit very well once," says he. "Let's see, he said that Fame was theperfume distilled from the perfect flowering of a wise and good life;while Notoriety was--er----"

  "Check!" says I. "It's what you get when you fry onions, eh?"

  Mr. Robert grins. "Some day, Torchy," says he, "I think I shall ask youto translate Emerson's Essays for me."

  It's all josh, all right. But that's what you get when you're a privatesec. de luxe.