CHAPTER II

OLD HICKORY BATS UP ONE

Anybody would most think I'd been with the Corrugated Trust long enough

to know that Old Hickory Ellins generally gets what he wants, whether

it's quick action from an office boy or a two-thirds majority vote from

the board of directors. But once in a while I seem to forget, and

shortly after that I'm wonderin' if it was a tank I went up against so

solid, or if someone threw the bond safe at me.

What let me in wrong this last time was a snappy little remark I got

shot my way right here in the general offices. I was just back from a

three-days' chase after a delayed shipment of bridge girders and steel

wheelbarrows that was billed for France in a rush, and I'd got myself

disliked by most of the traffic managers between here and Altoona, to

say nothing of freight conductors, yard bosses and so on. But I'd

untangled those nine cars and got 'em movin' toward the North River, and

now I was steamin' through a lot of office detail that had piled up

while I was gone. I'd lunched luxurious on an egg sandwich and a war

doughnut that Vincent had brought up to me from the arcade automat, and

I'd 'phoned Vee that I might not be out home until the 11:13, when in

blows this potty party with the poison ivy leaves on his shoulder straps

and demands to see Mr. Ellins at once. Course, it's me with my heels

together doin' the zippy salute.

"Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in until 10:30."

"Hah!" says he, like bitin' off a piece of glass. "And who are you,

lieutenant!"

"Special detail from the Ordnance Department, sir," says I.

"Oh, you are, eh?" he snorts. "Another bomb-proofer! Well, tell Mr.

Ellins I shall be back at 11:15--if this sector hasn't been captured in

the meantime," and as he double-quicks out he near runs down Mr. Piddie,

our rubber-stamp office manager, who has towed him in.

As for me, I stands there swallowin' air bubbles until my red-haired

disposition got below the boiling point once more. Then I turns to

Piddie.

"You heard, didn't you?" says I.

Piddie nods. "But I don't quite understand," says he. "What did he mean

by--er--bomb-proofer?"

"Just rank flattery, Piddie," says I. "The rankest kind. It's his way of

indicatin' that I'm a yellow dog hidin' under a roll-top desk for fear

someone'll kick me out where a parlor Pomeranian will look cross at me.

Excuse me if I don't seem to work up a blush. Fact is, though, I'm

gettin' kind of used to it."

"Oh, I say, though!" protests Piddie. "Why, everyone knows that you----"

"That's where you're dead wrong, Piddie," I breaks in. "What everybody

really knows is that while most of the young hicks who've been

Plattsburged into uniforms are already across Periscope Pond helpin'

swat the Hun, I'm still floatin' around here with nothing worse than car

dust on my tailor-built khaki. Why, even them bold Liberty bond patriots

who commute on the 8:03 are tired of asking me when I'm going to be sent

over to tell Pershing how it ought to be done. But when it comes to an

old crab of a swivel chair major chuckin' 'bomb-proofer' in my

teeth--well, I guess that'll be about all. Here's where I get a revise

or quit. Right here."

And it was sentiments like that, only maybe worded not quite so brash,

that I passed out to Old Hickory a little later on. He listens about as

sympathetic as a traffic cop hearin' why you tried to rush the stop

signal.

"I think we have discussed all that before, young man," says he. "The

War Department has recognized that, as the head of an essential

industry, I am entitled to a private secretary; also that you might

prove more useful with a commission than without one. And I rather

think you have. So there you are."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but I can't see it that way. I don't

know whether I'm private seccing or getting ready for a masquerade ball.

Any one-legged man could do what I'm doing. I'm ready to chuck the

commission and enlist."

"Really!" says he. "Well, in the first place, my son, a war-time

commission is something one doesn't chuck back at the United States

government because of any personal whim. It isn't being done. And then

again, you tried enlisting once, didn't you, and were turned down?"

"But that was early in the game," says I, "when the recruiting officers

weren't passing any but young Sandows. I could get by now. Have a heart,

Mr. Ellins. Lemme make a try."

He chews his cigar a minute, drums thoughtful on the mahogany desk, and

then seems to have a bright little idea.

"Very well, Torchy," says he, "we'll see what my friend, Major Wellby,

can do for you when he comes in."

"Him!" says I. "Why, he'd do anything for me that the law didn't stop

him from."

And sure enough, when the major drifts in again them two was shut in the

private office for more'n half an hour before I'm called in. I could

guess just by the way the major glares fond at me that if he could work

it he'd get me a nice, easy job mowin' the grass in No Man's Land, or

some snap like that.

"Huh!" says he, givin' me the night court up and down. "Wants an active

command, does he? And his training has been what? Four years as office

boy, three as private secretary! It's no use, Ellins. We're not fighting

this war with waste baskets or typewriters, you know."

"Oh, come, major!" puts in Old Hickory. "Why be unreasonable about this?

I will admit that you may be right, so far as it's being folly to send

this young man to the front. But I do insist that as a lieutenant he is

rather useful just where he is."

"Bah!" snorts the major. "So is the farmer who's raising hogs and corn.

He's useful. But we don't put shoulder straps on him, or send him to

France in command of a company. For jobs like that we try to find

youngsters who've been trained to handle men; who know how to get things

done. What we don't want is--eh? Someone calling me on the 'phone? All

right. Yes, this is Major Wellby. What? Oh, it can't be done today! Yes,

yes! I understand all that. But see here, captain, that transport is due

to sail at--hey, central! I say, central! Oh, what's the use?"

And as the major bangs up the receiver his face looks like a strawb'ry

shortcake just ready to serve. Somehow Mr. Ellins seems to be enjoyin'

the major's rush of temperament to the ears. Anyhow, there's a familiar

flicker under them bushy eyebrows of his and I ain't at all surprised

when he remarks soothin': "I gather, major, that someone can't seem to

get something done."

"Precisely," says the major, moppin' a few pearly beads off his shiny

dome. "And when a regular army captain makes up his mind that a thing

can't be done--well, it's hopeless, that's all. In this instance,

however, I fear he's right, worse luck!"

"Anyway," suggests Mr. Ellins, "he has made you think that the thing is

impossible, eh?"

"Think!" growls the major, glancin' suspicious at Old Hickory. "I say,

Ellins, what are you getting at? Still harping on that red tape notion,

are you? Perhaps you imagine this to be a case where, if you could only

turn loose your wonderful organization, you could work a miracle?"

"No, major," says Old Hickory. "We don't claim to work in miracles; but

when we decide that a thing ought to be done at a certain time--well,

generally it gets done."

"Just like that, eh?" grins the major sarcastic. "Really, Ellins, you

big business men are too good to be true. But see here; why not tap your

amazing efficiency for my benefit. This little job, for instance, which

one of our poor misguided captains reports as impossible within the time

limit. I suppose you would merely press a button and----"

"Not even that," breaks in Mr. Ellins. "I would simply turn it over to

Torchy here--and he'd do it."

The major glances at me careless and shrugs his shoulders. "My dear

Ellins," says he, "you probably don't realize it, but that's the sort of

stuff which adds to the horrors of war. Here you haven't the vaguest

idea as to what----"

"Perhaps," cuts in Old Hickory, "but I'll bet you a hundred to

twenty-five."

"Taken," says the major. Then he turns to me. "When can you start,

lieutenant?"

"As soon as I know where I'm starting for, sir," says I.

"How convenient," says he. "Well, then, here is an order on the New York

Telephone Co. for five spools of wire which you'll find stored somewhere

on Central Park South. See if you can get 'em."

"Yes, sir," says I. "And suppose I can?"

"Report to me at the Plutoria before 5:30 this afternoon," says he. "I

shall be having tea there. Ellins, you'd better be on hand, too, so that

I can collect that hundred."

And that's all there was to it. I'm handed a slip of paper carrying the

Quartermaster General's O. K., and while these two old sports are still

chucklin' at each other I've grabbed my uniform cap off the roll-top and

have caught an express elevator.

Course, I expected a frame-up. All them army officers are hard boiled

eggs when it comes to risking real money, and I knew the major must

think his twenty-five was as safe as if he'd invested it in thrift

stamps. As for Old Hickory Ellins, he'd toss away a hundred any time on

the chance of pulling a good bluff. So I indulges in a shadowy little

grin myself and beats it up town.

Simple enough to locate them spools of wire. Oh, yes. They're right in

the middle of the block between Sixth and Broadway, tucked away

inconspicuous among as choice a collection of contractor's junk as you

can find anywhere in town, and that's sayin' a good deal. But maybe

you've noticed what's been happenin' along there where Fifty-ninth

street gets high-toned? Looks like an earthquake had wandered by, but

it's only that down below they're connectin' the new subway with another

East river tunnel. And if there's anything in the way of old derricks,

or scrap iron, or wooden beams, or construction sheds that ain't been

left lying around on top it's because they didn't have it on hand to

leave.

Cute little things, them spools are, too; about six feet high, three

wide, and weighin' a ton or so each, I should judge. And to make the

job of movin' 'em all the merrier an old cement mixer has been at work

right next to 'em and the surplus concrete has been thrown out until

they've been bedded in as solid as so many bridge piers. I climbs around

and takes a look.

"How cunnin'!" says I. "Why, they'd make the Rock of Ages look like a

loose front tooth. And all I got to do is pull 'em up by the roots, one

at a time. Ha, ha! Likewise, tee-hee!"

It sized up like a bad case of bee bite with me at the wrong end of the

stinger. Still, I was just mulish enough to stick around. I had nearly

three hours left before I'd have to listen to the major's mirthsome

cackle, and I might as well spend part of it thinkin' up fool schemes.

So I walks around that cluster of cement-set spools some more. I even

climbs on top of one and gazes up and down the block.

They were still doing things to make it look less like a city street and

more like the ruins of Louvain. Down near the Fifth Avenue gates was the

fenced-in mouth of a shaft that led somewhere into the bowels of

Manhattan. And while I was lookin' out climbs a dago, unrolls a dirty

red flag, and holds up the traffic until a dull "boom" announces that

the offensive is all over for half an hour or so. Up towards Columbus

Circle more industry was goin' on. A steam roller was smoothin' out a

strip of pavement that had just been relaid, and nearer by a gang was

tearin' up more of the asphalt. I got kind of interested in the way they

was doin' it, too. You know, they used to do this street wreckin' with

picks and crowbars, but this crowd seemed to have more modern methods.

They was usin' three of these pneumatic drills and they sure were

ripping it up slick and speedy. About then I noticed that their

compressor was chugging away nearly opposite me and that the lines of

hose stretched out fifty feet or more.

"Say!" says I jerky and breathless, but to nobody in particular. I was

just registerin' the fact that I'd had a sudden thought.

A few minutes before, too, I'd seen a squad of rookies wander past and

into the park. I remembered noticin' what a husky, tanned lot they were,

and from their hat cords that they belonged to the artillery branch.

Well, that was enough. In a flash I'd shinned over the stone wall and

was headin' 'em off.

You know how these cantonment delegations wander around town aimless

when they're dumped down here on leave waiting to be shunted off quiet

onto some transport? No friends, mighty little money, and nothing to do

but tramp the streets or hang around the Y. They actually looked kind of

grateful when I stops 'em and returns their salute. As luck would have

it there's a top sergeant in the bunch, so I don't have to make a

reg'lar speech.

"It's this way, sergeant," says I. "I'm looking for a few volunteers."

"There's ten of us, sir," says he, "with not a thing on our hands but

time."

"Then perhaps you'll help me put over something on a boss ditch digger,"

says I. "It's nothing official, but it may help General Pershing a whole

lot."

"We sure will," says the sergeant. "Now then, men. 'Shun! And forget

those dope sticks for a minute. How'll you have 'em, lieutenant--twos or

fours?"

"Twos will look more impressive, I guess," says I. "And just follow me."

"Fall in!" says the sergeant. "By twos! Right about! March!"

So when I rounds into the street again and bears down on this gang

foreman I has him bug-eyed from the start. He don't seem to know whether

he's being pinched or not.

"What's your name, my man?" says I, wavin' the Q. M.'s order

threatenin'.

It's Mike something or other, as I could have guessed without him near

chokin' to get it out.

"Very well, Mike," I goes on, as important as I knew how. "See those

spools over there that you people have done your best to bury? Well,

those have been requisitioned from the Telephone Company by the U. S.

army. Here's the order. Now I want you to get busy with your drill gang

and cut 'em loose."

"But--but see here, boss," sputters Mike, "'tis a private contract

they're workin' on and I couldn't be after----"

"Couldn't, eh?" says I. "Lemme tell you something. That wire has to go

on a transport that's due to sail the first thing in the morning. It's

for the Signal Corps and they need it to stretch a headquarters' line

into Berlin."

"Sorry, boss," said Mike, "but I wouldn't dast to----"

"Sergeant," says I, "do your duty."

Uh-huh! That got Mike all right. And when we'd yanked him up off his

knees and convinced him that he wouldn't be shot for an hour or so yet

he's so thankful that he gets those drills to work in record time.

It was a first-class hunch, if I do have to admit it myself. You should

have seen how neat them rapid fire machines begun unbuttonin' those big

wooden spools, specially after a couple of our doughboy squad, who'd

worked pneumatic riveters back home, took hold of the drills. Others

fished some hand sledges and crowbars out of a tool shed and helped the

work along, while Mike encourages his gang with a fluent line of foreman

repartee.

Course, I didn't have the whole thing doped out at the start, but

gettin' away with this first stab only showed me how easy it was if you

wasn't bashful about callin' for help. From then on I didn't let much

assistance get away from me, either. Yankin' the spools out to the

street level by hookin' on the steam roller was my next play, but

commandeerin' a sand blast outfit that was at work halfway down the

block was all Mike's idea.

"They need smoothin' up a bit, boss," says he.

And inside of half an hour we had all five of them spools lookin' new

and bright, like they'd just come from the mill.

"What next, sir?" asks the sergeant.

"Why," says I, "the fussy old major who's so hot for getting these

things is waiting at the Plutoria, about ten blocks down. Maybe he wants

'em there. I wonder if we could----"

"Sure!" says the sergeant. "This heavy gun bunch can move anything.

Here! I'll show 'em how."

With that he runs a crowbar through the center of one of the spools,

puts a man on either side to push, and rolls it along as easy as

wheelin' a baby carriage.

"Swell tactics, sergeant," says I. "And just for that I'm goin' to

provide your squad with a little music. Might as well do this in style,

eh? Wait a minute."

And it wasn't long before I was back from another dash into the park

towin' half a drum corps that I'd borrowed from some Junior Naval

Reserves that was drillin' over on the ballfield.

So it was some nifty little parade that I finally lines up to lead down

Fifth Avenue. First there's me, then the drum corps, then the sergeant

and his men rollin' them spools of wire. We strings out for more'n a

block.

You'd think New Yorkers were so used to parades by this time that you

couldn't get 'em stretchin' their necks for anything less'n a regiment

of hand-picked heroes. They've seen the French Blue Devils at close

range, gawped at the Belgians, and chummed with the Anzacs. But, say,

this spool-pushin' stunt was a new one on 'em. Folks just lined the curb

and stared. Then some bird starts to cheer and it's taken up all down

the line, just on faith.

"Hey, pipe the new rollin' tanks!" shouts someone.

"Gwan!" sings out another wise guy. "Them's wooden bombs they're goin'

to drop on Willie."

It's the first time I've been counted in on any of this hooray stuff,

and I can't say I hated it. At the same time I tried not to look too

chesty. But when I wheeled the procession into the side street and got

'em bunched two deep in front of the Plutoria's carriage entrance I

ain't sure but what I was wearin' kind of a satisfied grin.

Not for long, though. The six-foot taxi starter in the rear admiral's

uniform jumps right in with the prompt protest. He wants to know what

the blinkety-blink I think I'm doin', blockin' up his right of way in

that fashion.

"You can't do it! Take 'em away!" says he.

"Ah, keep the lid on, old Goulash," says I. "Sergeant, if he gets messy,

roll one of those spools on him. I'll be back shortly."

With that I blows into the Plutoria and hunts up the tea room. The

major's there, all right, and Mr. Ellins, also a couple of ladies.

They're just bein' served with Oolong and caviar sandwiches.

"Ah!" says the major, as he spots me. "Our gallant young office

lieutenant, eh? Well, sir, anything to report?"

"The spools are outside, sir," says I.

"Wh--a--at!" he gasps.

"Where'll you have 'em put, sir?" says I.

About then, though, in trails the taxi starter, the manager and a brace

of house detectives.

"That's him!" says the starter, pointin' me out. "He's the one that's

blockin' traffic."

I will say this for the major, though, he's a good sport. He comes right

to the front and takes all the blame.

"I'm responsible," he tells the manager. "It's perfectly all right, too.

Military necessity, sir. Well, perhaps you don't like it, but I'll have

you understand, sir, I could block off your whole street if I wished. So

clear out, all of you."

"Why, Horace!" puts in one of the ladies, grabbin' him by the arm.

"Yes, yes, my dear," says the major. "I know. No scene. Certainly not.

Only these hotel persons must be put in their place. And if you will

excuse me for a moment I'll see what can be done. Come, lieutenant. I

want to get a look at those spools myself."

Well, he did. "But--but I understood," says he, "that they were stuck in

concrete or something of the kind."

"Yes, sir," says I. "We had to unstick 'em. Pneumatic drills and a steam

roller. Very simple."

"Great Scott!" says he. "Why didn't that fool captain think of---- But,

see here, I don't want 'em here. Now, if we could only get them to Pier

14----"

"That would be a long way to roll 'em, sir," says I, "but it could be

done. Loadin' 'em on a couple of army trucks would be easier, though.

There's a Quartermaster's depot at the foot of Fifty-seventh Street, you

know."

"So there is," says he. "I'll call them up. Come in, will you,

lieutenant and--and join us at tea? You've earned it, I think."

Three minutes more and the major announces that the trucks are on the

way.

"Which means, Ellins," he adds, "that you win your twenty-five. Here you

are."

"If you don't mind," says Old Hickory, "I'll keep this and pass on my

hundred to Torchy here. He might like to entertain his volunteer squad

with it."

Did I? Say, when I got through showin' that bunch of far West artillery

husks how to put in a real pleasant evening along Broadway there wasn't

enough change left to buy a sportin' extra. But they'd had chow in the

giddiest lobster palace under the white lights, they'd occupied two

boxes at the zippiest girl show in town and they was loaded down with

cigarettes and chocolate enough to last 'em clear to France.

The next mornin', when Old Hickory comes paddin' into the general

offices, he stops to pat me friendly on the shoulder.

"I think we have succeeded in revising the major's opinion," he remarks,

"as to the general utility of bomb-proofers in certain instances."

I grins up at him. "Then," says I, "do I get a recommend for active duty

within jabbin' distance of the Huns?"

"We did consider that," says Old Hickory, "but the decision was just as

I suspected from the first. The major says it would be a shame to waste

you on anything less than a divisional command, and there aren't enough

of those to go around. Chiefly, though, he thinks that anyone who is

able to get things done in New York in the wizard-like way that you can

should be kept within call of Governor's Island. So I fear, Torchy,

that you and I will have to go on serving our country right here."

"All right, Mr. Ellins," says I. "I expect you win--as per usual."