CHAPTER XIII

TORCHY STRAYS FROM BROADWAY

"I must say it listens kind of complicated," says I, after Vee has

explained how I am to arrive at this country house weddin' fest.

"Why, Torchy, it's perfectly simple," says she.

And once more she sketches out the plan, how I'm to take the express to

Springfield, catch a green line trolley that's bound northwest, get off

at Dorr's Crossing, and wait until this Barry Crane party picks me up in

his car.

You see this friend of Vee's who's billed for the blushin' bride act has

decided to have the event pulled off at Birch Crest, the family's summer

home up in the hills of old N. H. Vee has promised to motor up the day

before with the bridesmaid, leavin' me to follow the next mornin'. But

when we come to look up train schedules it develops that the only way to

get to Birch Crest by train is via Boston.

"How about runnin' up to Montreal and droppin' down?" I suggests

sarcastic.

And then comes the word that this organist guy will be on his way up

across lots, after an over-night stop in New Haven, and will take me

aboard if I can make the proper connection.

"Suppose I make a slip, though?" says I. "There I'll be stranded up in

the pie belt with nothing but my feet to ride fifty miles on. Sorry,

Vee, but I guess your old boardin' school chum will have to break into

matrimony without my help."

Maybe you think that settled it. If you do you ain't tried being

married. Inside of half an hour we'd agreed on the usual compromise--I'm

to do as Vee says.

So here at 11:15 on a bright summer mornin' I'm dumped off a trolley car

way out on the upper edge of Massachusetts. It's about as lonesome a

spot as you could find on the map. Nothing but fields and woods in

sight, and a dusty road windin' across the right of way. Not a house to

be seen, not even a barn.

"You're sure this is Dorr's Crossin', eh?" I asks of the conductor as I

hesitates on the step.

"Oh, yes," says he, cheerful.

"Don't seem to be usin' it much, does he?" says I.

"Ding, ding!" remarks the fare collector to the motorman, and it was a

case of hoppin' lively for me.

There's nothing left to do but hoist myself conspicuous onto a

convenient wayside rock and hope that this Barry Crane person was

runnin' somewhere near on time. About then I begun to wish I knew more

about him, his general habits and so on. Was his memory good? Could he

be depended on to keep dates with strangers? Would he know Dorr's

Crossing when he saw it?

Vee hadn't touched on any of these points when she was convincin' me how

simple it would be for him and me to get together. Course, she'd given

me a chatty little sketch of Mr. Crane, but mostly it had been about

what a swell organist he was. Played in a big church. Not only that, but

made up pieces, all out of his own head. Also she'd mentioned about his

hopeless romance with a certain Ann McLeod.

Seems Barry had been strong for Miss McLeod for five or six years. She'd

kind of strung him along at first, too. Couldn't help likin' Barry some.

Everybody did. He was that kind--good natured, always sayin' clever

things. You know. But when it came to hitchin' up with him permanent,

Miss McLeod had balked. Nobody knew just why. Bright girl, Ann. Brainy,

too, and with lots of pep. She was secretary for some big efficiency

expert. Maybe that was why she couldn't stand for Barry's musical

temperament. She thought 9 a.m. was absolutely the last call for pushin'

back the roll-top and openin' the mornin' mail, while Barry's idea of

beginnin' a perfect day was for someone to bring in a breakfast tray

about eleven o'clock and hand him a cigarette before he tumbled out of

the straw. So while he'd qualified as a Dear Old Thing and she'd got to

the point where she'd let him call her Playmate Mine, that's where the

romance hung on the rocks. Also he'd been described as a chunky party

with a round face decorated with a cute little mustache and baby blue

eyes.

All of which don't help me dope out how long I'm due to lend a human

note to an otherwise empty landscape. And there's more excitin' outdoor

sports than sittin' on a rock waitin' to be rescued by someone who

hasn't even seen a snapshot of you. I'll tell the world that. During the

first twenty minutes I answered two false alarms. One was a gasoline

truck going the wrong way and the other turns out to be an R. F. D.

flivver with a baby's go-cart tied on the side. It was good and hot on

the perch I'd picked out and I could feel the sun doing things to the

back of my neck and ears, but I didn't dare climb down for fear I'd be

missed.

Where was this musical gent and his tourin' car? Or would it be a

limousine? Somehow from the way Vee had talked, sayin' he was bugs on

motorin', I sort of favored the limousine proposition. Uh-huh. Most

likely one lined with cretonne, and a French chauffeur at the wheel. But

nothing like that was rollin' past Dorr's Crossing. Not while I was

watchin'.

The rock wasn't gettin' a bit softer, either. Once a bluejay balanced

himself on a nearby bush and after lookin' me over curious screeched

himself hoarse tryin' to say what he thought of a city guy who didn't

know enough to get in the shade. It got to be noon. Still no Barry

Crane. I was just wonderin' when that trolley car was due for a return

trip and was workin' up a few cuttin' remarks to hand Vee when I got her

on the long distance, when I hears something approachin' from down the

road. First off I thought it might be one of these hay mowers runnin'

wild, but pretty soon out of a cloud of dust jumps a little roadster. It

sure was humpin' itself and makin' as much noise about it as a Third

Avenue surface car with two flat wheels. Didn't look very promisin' but

I got up and stretched my neck until I saw there was two people in it.

Next thing I knew though one of 'em, a young lady, is motionin' to me,

and with a squeal of brake bands the little car pulls up opposite the

rock. And sure enough the young gent drivin' has a sketchy mustache and

baby blue eyes.

"What ho!" he sings out cheerful. "Torchy, isn't it? Sorry if we've kept

you waiting, but Adelbaran wasn't performing quite as well as usual this

morning. Stow your bag on the fender and climb in."

"In where?" says I, glancin' at the single seat.

"Oh, really there's plenty of room for three," says the young lady. "And

for fear Barry will forget to mention it, I am Miss McLeod. He persuaded

me at the last minute to come with him in this crazy machine."

"Oh, I say, Ann!" protests Barry. "Not so rough, please. You've no

notion how sensitive Adelbaran is to unkind criticism. Besides, he's

brought us safely so far, hasn't he?"

Ann shrugs her shoulders and moves over to make room for me. "If you can

make another fifty miles in it I shall almost believe in miracles," says

she.

"And in me too, I trust," says Barry. "Hearest thou, Adelbaran? Then on,

on, pride of the desert! The women are singing in the tents and--and all

that sort of thing. Ho, ho! for the roaring road!"

He's some classy little driver, Barry. Inside of a hundred yards he has

her doin' better than twenty-six on an up grade over a dirt road

sprinkled free with rocks and waterbreaks. Slam bang, bumpety-bump,

ding-dong we go, with more jingles and squeaks and rattles than a junk

cart rollin' off a roof.

"Don't mind a few little noises," says Miss McLeod. "Barry doesn't. A

loose fender or a worn roller bearing means nothing to him. Why, he

started with a cracked spark-plug that was spitting like a tom-cat, the

carburetor popping from too lean a mixture, and a half filled radiator

boiling away merrily. It was stopping to get those things fixed up, and

having some air pumped into the spare tire, that made us so late."

"You see!" says Barry. "She admits it. Wonderful girl though, Ann. She

can tell at a glance just what's the matter with anything or anyone.

Take me, for instance; she----"

"Sharp curve ahead, Barry," breaks in Ann.

"Right-o!" says he, takin' it on two wheels and then stepping on the gas

button to rush a hill.

"Lucky we're wedged in tight," says I, "or some of us might be spilled

out."

"Yes," says Miss McLeod, "and Barry never would miss us."

"Cruel words!" says Barry. "How often have I said, Ann, that I miss you

every hour?"

"He's off again," says Ann. "But if you must be sentimental, Barry, I

shall insist on doing the driving myself."

"Squelched!" says Barry. "I'll be good."

Say, they made a great team, them two, when it came to exchangin'

persiflage. It was snappy stuff and it helped a lot towards taking my

mind off Barry's jazz-style drivin'. For he sure does bear down heavy

with his foot. If he plays the organ the way he runs a car I should

think he'd raise the roof. And the speed he gets out of that dinky

little roadster is amazin'. Might have been all right on smooth macadam,

but on this country road he had her jumpin' around on that short

wheel-base like a jackrabbit with the itch. We might have been so many

kernels of pop-corn being shaken over a hot fire. Barry seems to be

enjoyin' every minute of it, though. He makes funny cracks, whistles,

and now and then breaks into song.

"Driving a car seems to go to his head," remarks Miss McLeod. "It

appears to make him wild." "It does," says Barry. "For----

I'm a wild prairie flower,

I grow wilder hour by hour.

Nobody cares to cultivate me,

I'm wild. Whe-e-e-e!"

He warbles that for the next five minutes, until Miss McLeod suggests

that it's time for lunch.

"Let's stop at the next shady place we come to," says she.

"Oh, bother!" says Barry. "Just when Adelbaran is striking his best

pace. Why not take our nourishment on the fly?"

So she gets out the sandwiches and the thermos bottle and we take it

that way. Rather than let Barry take either hand off the wheel she feeds

him herself, even if he does complain about gettin' his countenance

smeared up with mustard some. Anyway, we didn't lose any time if we did

spill more or less of the coffee.

"Cheerie oh!" sings out Barry, readin' a sign board. "Only twenty miles

more!"

"But such up-and-downy miles!" says Ann.

She was dead right about that, for the further we got into New Hampshire

the more the road looked like it had been built by a roller coaster fan.

I always had a notion this was a small state, from the way it looks on

the map, but I'll bet if it could be rolled flat once it would spread

out near as big as Texas. All we did was to climb up and up and then

slide down and down. Generally at the bottom was one of these covered

wooden bridges, like a hay barn with both ends knocked out, and the way

we'd roar through those was enough to make you think you was goin'

forward with a barrage. Then just ahead would be another long hill

windin' up to the top of the world.

"Only five miles to go!" sings out Barry at last, along about three

o'clock. "Now, Ann, it's nearly time for you to be saying a few kind

words to Adelbaran and me."

"I'll be thinking them up," says Ann.

Perhaps she did. I can't say. For it was somewhere in the middle of the

second or third hill after this that the little roadster began to

splutter and cough like it had swallowed a monkey wrench.

"Come, come now, Adelbaran!" says Barry coaxin'. "Don't go misbehaving

at this late hour. Remember the women singing in the tents, the palm

waving over the----"

"Barry," says Ann, "something has gone wrong with your engine."

"Say not so," says Barry, steppin' on the accelerator careless.

"But I'm sure!" says Ann. "There!"

With a final cough the thing has quit cold. All Barry can seem to do

though is to jiggle the spark and look surprised. "Why--why, that's

odd!" says he.

"Yes, but sitting here isn't going to help," says Miss McLeod. "Get out

and see what's happened. Come on."

And while she's liftin' the hood and pawin' around among the wires and

things, with Barry lookin' on puzzled and helpless, I sort of wanders

about inspectin' Adelbaran curious. It's some relic, all right, and my

guess is that it was assembled by a cross-eyed mechanic from choice

pieces he rescued off'm a scrap heap. All of a sudden I notices

something peculiar.

"Say, folks," I calls out, "where's the gas tank on this chariot?"

"Why, it's on the back," says Barry.

"Well, it ain't now," says I. "It's gone."

"Gone!" echoes Ann. "The gas tank? Oh, that can't be possible."

"Take a look," says I.

And sure enough, when they comes around all they can find is the rusted

straps that held it in place and the feed pipe twisted off short.

"Ha, ha!" says Barry. "How utterly absurd. I've rattled off a lot of

things before, but never the gas tank. And I suppose that's rather

important to have."

"Quite," says Ann. "One doesn't go motoring nowadays without one."

"But--but what's to be done?" says Barry. "I simply must get to Birch

Crest in time to play the wedding march. The ceremony is to be at 4:30,

you know, and here we are----"

"I should say," breaks in Ann, "that we'd better find that tank and see

if we can't screw it on or something. It can't be far behind, of

course."

That seemed sensible enough. So we spreads out across the road and goes

scoutin' down the hill. Didn't seem likely a thing as big as that could

hide itself completely, even if it had bounced off into the bushes. But

we got clear to the bottom without findin' so much as its track. On we

goes, pawin' through the bushes, scoutin' the ditches on both sides, and

peekin' behind trees.

"Come, little tankey, come to your master," calls Barry persuasive. Then

he tries whistlin' for it.

"Well, we're sure to find it somewhere down that next hill," says Ann.

"Probably near that water-break where you gave us such a hard jolt."

But we didn't. In fact, we scouted back over the road for nearly a mile

with no signs of the bloomin' thing.

"Then we've missed it," finally decides Ann. "Of course no car could run

this far without gas."

"You don't know Adelbaran," says Barry. "He's quite used to running

without things. I've trained him to do it."

"Barry, this is no time to be funny," says she. "Now you take the left

side going back. I'll bet you overlooked it."

Well, we made a regular drag-net on the return trip, scourin' the bushes

for twenty feet on either side, but no tank turns up.

"Looks like we were stranded," says I, as we fetches up at the roadster

once more.

Miss Ann McLeod, though, ain't one to give up easy. Besides, she's had

all that efficiency trainin'.

"I don't suppose you carry such a thing as an emergency can of gasoline

anywhere in the car?" she asks Barry.

"I'm sure I don't know," says he. "The fellow in the garage insisted on

selling me a lot of stuff once. It's all stowed under the seat."

"Let's see," says she, liftin' out the cushion. "Why yes, here it is--a

whole quart. And a little funnel, too. Now if we could pour enough into

the feed pipe to fill the carburetor----"

It was a grand little scheme, only the funnel end was too big to fit

into the feed pipe.

"Any tire tape?" demands Ann.

Barry thought there was, but we couldn't find it. Then he remembered

he'd used it to wrap the handle of his tennis racquet once.

"I got some gum," says I.

"The very thing!" says Ann. "It must be chewed first though. Here,

Barry, take two or three pieces."

"But I don't care for gum," says Barry. "Really!"

"If you don't wish to spend the night here, chew--and chew fast," says

Ann.

So he chewed. We all chewed. And with the three fresh gobs Ann did a

first aid plumbin' job that didn't look so worse. She got the funnel so

it would stick on the pipe.

"But it must be held there," she announces. "I'll tell you, Barry; you

will have to hang out over the back and keep the funnel in place with

one hand and pour in the gas with the other, while I drive."

"Oh, I say!" says Barry. "I'd look nice, wouldn't I?"

"Torchy will hold you by the legs to keep you from falling off," she

goes on. "Come, unbutton the back curtain and roll it up. There! Now out

you go. And don't spill a drop, mind."

It sure was an ingenious way of feedin' gas to an engine, and I had my

doubts about whether it would work or not. But it does. First thing I

knew we'd started off with a roar and were tearin' up the hill on

second. We made the top, too.

"Now hold tight and save the gas," sings out Ann. "I'm going to coast

down this one full tilt."

Which she does. Barry bounces around a lot on his elbows and stomach,

but I had a firm grip on his legs and we didn't lose him off.

"More gas now!" calls Ann as we hits the bottom.

"Ouch! My tummy!" groans Barry.

"Never mind," says Ann. "Only three miles more."

Say, it was the weirdest automobilin' I ever did, but Ann ran with

everything wide open and we sure were coverin' the distance. Once we

passed a big tourin' car full of young folks and as we went by they

caught sight of Barry, actin' as substitute gas tank, and they all

turned to give him the haw-haw.

"Probably they--they think I--I'm doing this on a bub-bet," says Barry.

"I--I wish I were. I--I'd pay."

"Store ahead!" announces Ann. "Perhaps we can get some more gas."

It was a good guess. We fills the can and starts on again, with less

than two miles to go. I think Barry must have been a bit reckless with

that last quart for we hadn't gone more'n a mile before the engine

begins to choke and splutter. We were almost to the top of a hill, too.

"Gas all gone," says Barry, tryin' to climb back in.

"Go back!" says Ann. "Take the funnel off and blow in the feed pipe.

There! That's it. Keep on blowing."

You couldn't beat Ann. The machine takes a fresh spurt, we makes the top

of the hill, and halfway down the other side we sees Birch Crest. Hanged

if we don't roll right up to the front door too, before the engine gives

its last gasp, and Barry, covered with dust and red in the face, is

hauled in. We're only half an hour late, at that.

Course, the whole weddin' party is out there to see our swell finish.

They'd been watchin' for us this last hour, wonderin' what had happened,

and now they crowds around to ask Barry why he arrives hangin' over the

back that way. And you should have heard 'em roar when they gets the

explanation.

"See!" says Barry on the side to Ann. "I told you folks would laugh at

me."

"Poor boy!" says Miss McLeod, hookin' her arm into his. "Don't mind. I

think you were perfectly splendid about it."

"By Jove, though! Do you?" says he. "Would--would you risk another ride

with me, Ann? I know Adelbaran didn't show up very well but----"

"But your disposition did," cuts in Ann. "And if you're going to insist

on driving around the country in such a rattle-trap machine I--I think

I'd better be with you--always."

And say, I don't think I ever heard so much pep thrown into the weddin'

march as when Barry Crane pumps it out that afternoon. He's wearin' a

broad grin, too.

Soon as I has a chance I whispers the news to Vee. "Really?" says she.

"Isn't that fine! And I must say Barry is a lucky chap."

"Well, he's some whizz himself," says I. "Bound to be or else he

couldn't run a car a mile and a half just on his breath."