CHAPTER VIII

HOW BABE MISSED HIS STEP

What Babe Cutler was plannin' certainly listened like a swell party--the

kind you read about. He was going to round up three other sports like

himself, charter a nice comfortable yacht, and spend the winter knockin'

about in the West Indies, with a bunch of bananas always hangin' under

the deck awning aft and a cabin steward forward mixing planter's punch

every time the sun got over the yard arm.

"The lucky stiff!" thinks I, as I heard him runnin' over some of the

details to Mr. Robert, who he thinks can maybe be induced to join.

"Oh, come along, Bob!" says he. "We'll stop off for a look at Palm Beach

on the way down, hang up a few days at Knight's Key for shark fishing,

then run over to Havana for a week of golf, drop around to Santiago and

cheer up Billy Pickens out on his blooming sugar plantation, cross over

to Jamaica and have some polo with the military bunch up at

Newcastle--little things like that. Besides, we can always have a game

of deuces wild going evenings and----"

"No use, Babe," breaks in Mr. Robert. "It can't be done. That sort of

thing is all well enough for a foot-loose old bach such as you, but with

me it's quite different."

"The little lady at home, eh?" says Babe. "I'll bet she'd be glad to get

rid of you for a couple of months."

"Flatterer!" says Mr. Robert. "And I suppose you think I wouldn't be

missed from the Corrugated Trust, either?"

"I'll bet a hundred you could hand your job over to Torchy here and the

concern would never know the difference," says Babe, winkin' friendly at

me. "Anyway, don't turn me down flat. Take a day or so to think it

over."

And with that Mr. Cutler climbs into his mink-lined overcoat, slips me a

ten spot confidential as he passes my desk, and goes breezin' out

towards Broadway. The ten, I take it, is a retainer for me to boost the

yachtin' enterprise. I shows it to Mr. Robert and grins.

"There's only one Babe," says he. "He'd offer a tip to St. Peter, or

suggest matching quarters to see whether he was let in or barred out."

"He's what I'd call a perfect sample of the gay and careless sport,"

says I. "How does it happen that he's escaped the hymeneal noose so

long?"

"Because marriage has never been put up to him as a game, a sporting

proposition in which you can either win or lose out," says Mr. Robert.

"He thinks it's merely a life sentence that you get for not watching

your step. Just as well, perhaps, for Babe isn't what you would call

domestic in his tastes. Give him a 'Home, Sweet Home' motto and he'd

tack it inside his wardrobe trunk."

I expect that's a more or less accurate description, for Mr. Robert has

known him a long time. And yet, you can't help liking Babe. He ain't one

of these noisy tin-horns. He dresses as quiet as he talks, and among

strangers he'd almost pass for a shy bank clerk having a day off. He's

the real thing though when it comes to pleasant ways of spending time

and money; from sailing a 90-footer in a cup race, to qualifying in the

second flight at Pinehurst. No shark at anything particular, I

understand, but good enough to kick in at most any old game you can

propose.

Also he's an original I. W. W. Uh-huh. Income Without Work. That was

fixed almost before he was born, when his old man horned in on a big

mill combine and grabbed off enough preferred stock to fill a packing

case. Maybe you think you have no interest in financin' Babe Cutler's

career. But you have. Can't duck it. Every time you eat a piece of

bread, or a slice of toast or a bit of pie crust you're contributin' to

Babe's dividends. And he knows about as much how flour is made as he

does about gettin' up in the night to warm a bottle for little

Tootsums. Which isn't Babe's fault any more than it's yours. As he'd

tell you himself, if the case was put up to him, it's all in the

shuffle.

He must have had some difficulty organizin' his expedition, for that

same afternoon, when I eases myself off the 4:03 at Piping Rock--having

quit early, as a private sec-de-luxe should now and then--who should

show up at the station but Mr. Cutler in his robin's-egg blue sport

phaeton with the white wire wheels.

"I say," he says, "didn't Bob come out, too?"

"No," says I. "I think he and Mrs. Ellins have a dinner party on in

town."

"Bother!" says Babe. "I was counting on him for an hour or so of

billiards and another go at talking up the cruise. We'll land him yet,

eh, Torchy? Hop in and I'll run you out home."

So I climbs aboard, Babe opens the cut-out, and we make a skyrocket

start.

"How about swinging around the country club and back through the middle

road? No hurry, are you?" he asks.

"Not a bit," says I, glancin' at the speedometer, which was touchin'

fifty.

"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel,

you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there.

Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, but

they're all over the place--climbing on you, mauling you, tripping you

up. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngsters

are always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep out

of the way until dinner."

"I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?"

"Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "But

when they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with sticky

fingers--no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to think

they are all little wonders. And Dick is just as bad--rushes home early

every afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!"

"Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family of

your own."

"Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!"

I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shied

matrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on Sister

Mabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, a

wife and kids wouldn't fit in at all.

We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on the

back stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams on

the emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyond

where this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-lined

throw-scarf.

"What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back.

"Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch of

youngsters with her and--yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!"

"O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must."

As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a look

at this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky around

this young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle on

top of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin'

a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'.

"You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe.

"Heavens, no!" says he.

"But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on.

"Why, let's see," says Babe. "Oh, yes! Put a cold door key on the back

of his neck."

"Or a piece of brown paper on his tongue," I adds.

The young lady shrugs her shoulders disappointed. "I've tried all that,"

says she, "and an ice pack, too. But it's no use. I must get him to a

doctor right away. There's one about a mile down this road. Couldn't you

take us?"

"Sure thing!" says Babe. "Torchy, you can hang on the back, can't you?"

"Oh, I can walk home," says I.

"No, no," says Babe, hasty. "You--you'd best come along."

So I helps load in the young lady and the claret drippin' youngster,

drapes myself on the spare tires, and we're off.

"Is it little brother?" asks Babe, glancin' at the kid.

"Mine?" says the young lady. "Of course not. I'm Lucy Snell--one of the

teachers at the public school back there at the cross-roads. Some of the

children always insist on walking part way home with me, especially

little Billy here. Usually he behaves very nicely, but today he seems to

be out of luck. His nose started leaking fully half an hour ago. He must

have leaked quarts and quarts, all over himself and me. You wouldn't

think he could have a drop left in him. I was just about crazy when I

saw you coming. There's Dr. Baker's house on the right around that next

curve. And say, there's some speed to this bus of yours, Mr.--er----"

"Cutler," says Babe. "Here we are. Anything more I can do?"

"Why," says Miss Snell, as I'm unbuttonin' the door for her, "you might

stick around a few minutes to see if he wants little Billy taken to the

hospital or anything. I'll let you know." And with that she trips in.

"Lively young party, eh?" I remarks to Babe. "Don't mind askin' for what

she wants."

"Perfectly all right, too," says he, "in a case like this. She isn't one

of the helpless kind. Some pep to her, I'll bet. Lucy, eh? I always did

like that name."

I had to chuckle. "What about the Snell part?" says I. "That one of your

favorite names, too?"

"N--n--no," says Babe. "But she'll probably change that some of these

days. She's the sort that does, you know."

"I expect you are right, at that," I agrees.

Pretty soon out she comes again, calm and smilin'. It's some smile she

has, by the way. Wide and generous and real folksy. And now that the

scare has faded out of her eyes they have more or less snap to 'em.

They're the bright brown kind, that match her hair, and the freckles

across the bridge of her nose.

"It's all right," says she. "Dr. Baker says the ice pack did the trick.

And he'll take Billy home as soon as he's cleaned him up a bit. Thanks,

Mr. Cutler."

"Oh, I might as well drive you home, too, and finish the job," says

Babe.

"Well, I'm not missing anything like that, I can tell you," says Miss

Snell. "I'm simply soaked with that youngster's gore. But I live way

back on the other road. My! Billy dripped some on your seat cushions,

didn't he?"

"Oh, that will wash out," says Babe careless. "You're fond of

youngsters, I suppose?"

"Well, in a way I am," says she. "I'm used to 'em anyway, being one of

six myself. That's why I'm out teaching--makes one less for Dad to have

to rustle for. He keeps the little plumber's shop down opposite the

station. You've seen the sign--T. Snell."

"I've no doubt I have," says Babe. "And you--you like teaching, do you?"

"Why, I can't say I'm dead in love with it," says Miss Snell. "Not this

second grade stuff, anyway. It's all I could qualify for, though. This

is my second year at it. I don't suppose you ever taught second grade

yourself, did you?"

Babe almost gasps, but admits that he never has.

"Then take my advice and don't tackle it," says Miss Snell. "Not that

you would, of course, but that's what I tell all the girls who think I

have such a soft snap with my Saturdays off and a two months' summer

vacation. Believe me, you need it after you've drilled forty youngsters

all through a term. D-o-g, dog; c-a-t, cat. Why will the little imps

sing it through their noses? It's the same with the two-times table. And

they can be so stupid! I don't believe I was meant for a teacher,

anyway, for it all seems so useless to me, making them go through all

that, and keeping still for hours and hours, when they want so much to

be outdoors playing around. I'd like to be out myself."

"But after school hours," suggests Babe, "you surely have time to go in

for sports of some kind."

"What do you mean, sports?" asks Miss Snell.

"Oh, tennis, or horseback riding, or golf," says Babe.

She turns around quick and stares at him. "Are you kidding?" she

demands. "Or do you want to get me biting my upper lip? Say, on five

hundred a year, with board to pay and clothes to buy, you can't go in

very heavy for sports. I did blow myself to a tennis racquet and

rubber-soled shoes last summer and my financial standing has been below

par ever since. As for spare time, there's no such thing. When I've

finished helping Ma do the supper dishes there's always a pile of lesson

papers to go over, and reports to make out. And Saturdays I can do my

washing and mending, maybe shampoo my hair or make over a hat or

something. Can you figure in any chance for golf or horseback riding? I

can't, even if club dues were free to schoolma'ams and the board should

send around a lot of spotted ponies for our use. Not that I wouldn't

like to give those things a whirl once. I'm just foolish enough to

think I could do the sport stuff with the best of 'em."

"I'll bet you could, too," says Babe, enthusiastic. "You--you're just

the type."

"Yes," says Miss Snell, "and a fat lot of good that's going to do me. So

what's the use talking? In a year or so I suppose I'll be swinging a

broom around my own little flat, coaxing a kitchen range to hump itself

at 6:30 a.m., and hanging out a Monday wash for two."

"Oh!" says Babe. "Then you've picked out the lucky chap?"

"I don't know whether he's lucky or not," says she. "It isn't really

settled, anyway. Pete Snyder has been hanging around for some time, and

I expect I'll give in if he keeps it up. He's Dad's helper, you know,

and he isn't more'n half as dumb as he looks. Gosh! Here we are. I hope

none of the kids see you bringing me home and tell Pete about it. He'd

be green in the eye for a week. Good-by, Mr. Cutler, and much obliged."

As she skips out and up the path toward the little ramshackle cottage

she turns and flashes one of them wide smiles on Babe and gives him a

friendly wave.

"Well," says I. "Pete might do worse."

"I believe you," says Babe, kind of solemn.

Course, I didn't keep any close track of Mr. Cutler for the next few

days. There was no special reason why I should. I supposed he was busy

makin' up his quartette for that Southern cruise. So about a week later

I'm mildly surprised to hear that he's still stayin' on over at Sister

Mabel's. I didn't really suspicion anything until one afternoon, along

in the middle of January, when as I steps off the 5:10 I gets a glimpse

of Babe's blue racer waitin' at the crossing gates. And snuggled down

under the fur robe beside him, with her cheeks pinked up by the crisp

air and her brown eyes sparklin', is Miss Lucy Snell.

"Huh!" thinks I. "Still goin' on, eh? Or has Billy's little beak had

another leaky spell?"

Couldn't have been many days after that before I comes home to find Vee

all excited over some news she'd heard from Mrs. Robert Ellins.

"What do you think, Torchy!" says she. "That bachelor friend of Mr.

Robert, a Mr. Cutler, was married last night."

"Eh!" says I. "Babe?"

"Yes," says Vee. "And to a village girl, daughter of T. Snell, the

plumber. And his married sister is perfectly wild about it. Isn't it

dreadful?"

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Might turn out all right."

"But--but she's a poor little school-teacher," protests Vee, "and Mr.

Cutler is--is----"

"A rich sport," I puts in, "who's always had what he wanted. And I

expect he thought he wanted Miss Snell. Looks so, don't it?"

I understand that Sister Mabel threw seven kinds of fits, and that the

country club set was all worked up over the affair, specially one of the

young ladies that had played in mixed foursomes with Babe and probably

had the net out for him. But he didn't come back to apologize or

anything like that. And the next we heard was that the happy pair had

started for Florida on their honeymoon.

Well, that seemed to finish the incident. Mr. Robert hunches his

shoulders and allows that Babe is old enough to manage his own affairs.

Sister Mabel calmed down, and the disappointed young ladies crossed Babe

off the last-hope list. Besides, a perfectly good scandal broke out in

the bridge playing and dancing set, and Babe Cutler's rapid little

romance was forgotten. Five or six Sundays came and went, with Mondays

following regular.

And then here the other afternoon, as I'm camped down next to the car

window on my way home, who should tap me on the shoulder but the same

old Babe. That is, unless you looked close. For there's a worried,

puzzled look in his wide set eyes and he don't spring the usual hail.

"Hello!" says I. "Ain't lost your baggage checks, have you?"

"It's worse than that," says he. "I--I've lost--Lucy."

"Wha-a-t!" says I, gaspy. "You don't mean she--she's----"

"No," says Babe. "She's just quit me and gone home."

"But--but why?" I blurted out.

"Lord knows," groans Babe. "That's what I want to find out."

Honest, it listens like a first-class mystery. According to him they'd

been staying at one of the swellest joints he could find in the whole

state of Florida. Also he'd bought Lucy all the kinds of clothes she

would let him buy, from sport suits to evening gowns. She'd taken up a

lot of different things, too--golf, riding, swimming, dancing. Seemed to

be having a bully time when--bang! She breaks out into a weepy spell and

announces that she is going home. Does it, too, all by her lonesome,

leaving Babe to trail along by the next train.

"And for the life of me, Torchy," he declares, "I can't imagine why."

"Well, let's try to piece it out," says I. "First off, how have you been

spending your honeymoon?"

"Oh, golf mostly," says he. "I was runner up in the big tournament."

"I see," says I. "Thirty-six holes a day, eh?"

He nods.

"And a jack-pot session with the old crowd every evening?" I asks.

"Oh, only now and then," says he.

"With a few late parties down in the grill?" I goes on.

"Not a party," says Babe. "State's dry, you know. No, generally we went

into the ballroom evenings and I helped Lucy try out the new steps she

was learning."

"You did!" says I. "Then I give it up."

"Me too," says Babe. "But I'm not going to give up Lucy. Say, she's a

regular person, she is. She was making good, too, and having a whale of

a time when all of a sudden--Say, Torchy, if it was some break I made I

want to know it, so I can square myself. She wouldn't tell me; wouldn't

have a word to say. But listen, perhaps if you asked her----"

"Hey, back up!" says I.

"You know, if it hadn't been for you I might never have seen her," he

goes on. "You were there when it began, and if there's to be a finish

you might as well be in on that, too. I've got to know what it was I

did, though. Honest, I can't remember anything particularly raw. Been

chewing over it for two nights. If you could just----"

Well, at the end of ten minutes I agrees to go up to the plumber's

house, and if the new Mrs. Cutler will see me I says I'll put it up to

her.

"But you got to come along and hang around outside while I'm doing it,"

I insists.

"I'll do anything that either you or Lucy asks," says he. "I'll go the

limit."

"That listens fair enough," says I.

So that's how it happens I'm waitin' in the plumber's parlor for Babe

Cutler's runaway bride. And say, when she shows up in that zippy sport

suit, just in from a long tramp across country, she looks some classy.

First off she's inclined to be nervous and jumpy and don't want to talk

about Babe at all.

"Oh, he's all right," says she. "I have nothing against him. He--he

meant well."

"As bad as that, was he?" says I. "I shall hate to tell him."

"But it wasn't Babe, at all," she insists. "Don't you dare say it was,

either. If you must know, it was that awful hotel life. I--I just

couldn't stand it."

"Eh?" says I, and I expect I must have been gawpin' some. "Why, I

understand you were at one of the swellest----"

"We were," says she. "That was the trouble. And I suppose if I'd known

how, I might have had a swell time. But I didn't. I'd had no practice.

And say, if you think you can learn to be a regular winter resort person

in a few weeks just try it once. I did. I went at it wholesale. All of

the things I'd wanted to do and thought I could do, I tackled. It looks

like a lot of fun to see those girls start off with their golf clubs.

Seems easy to swing a driver and crack out the little white ball. Take

it from me, though, it's nothing of the kind. Why, I spent hours and

hours out on the practice tee with a grouchy Scotch professional trying

my best to hit it right. And I couldn't. At the end of three weeks I was

still a duffer. All I'd accumulated were palm callouses and a backache.

Yet I knew just how it should be done. I can repeat it now. One--you

take your 'stance. Two--you start the head of the club back in a

straight line with the left wrist. Three--you come up on your left toe

and bend the right knee. And so on. Yet I'd dub the ball only a few

yards.

"Then, when that was over, I'd go in and change for my dancing lessons.

More one--two--three stuff. And say, some of these new jazz steps are

queer, aren't they? I'd about got three or four all mixed up in my head

when I'd have to run and jump into my riding habit and go through a

different lot of one--two--three motions. And just as I'd lamed myself

in a lot of new places there would come the swimming lesson. I thought I

could swim some, too. I learned one summer down at Far Rockaway. But it

seems that was old stuff. They aren't doing that now. No, it's the

double side stroke, the Australian crawl, and a lot more. One, two,

three, four, five, six. Legs straight, chin down, and roll on the

three. And if you dream it's a pleasure to have a big husk of an

instructor pump your arms back and forth for an hour, and say sarcastic

things to you when you get mixed, with a whole gallery of fat old women

and grinning old sports looking on--Well, I'm tellin' you it's fierce.

Ab-so-lutely. It was the swimming lesson that finished me. Especially

the counting. 'Why, Lucy Snell, you poor prune,' says I to myself,

'you're not having a good time. You're back in school, second grade, and

the dunce of the class.' That's what I was, too. A flat failure. And

when I got to thinking of how Babe would take it when he found

out--Well, it got on my nerves so that I simply made a run for home.

There! You can tell him all about it, and I suppose he'll never want to

see or hear of me again."

"Maybe," says I, "but I have my doubts. Anyway, it won't take long to

make a test."

And when I'd left her and strolled out to the gate where Babe is pacin'

up and down anxious, he demands at once: "Well, did you find out?"

"Uh-huh," says I.

"Was--was it something I did?" he asks trembly.

"Sure it was," says I. "You let her in for an intensive training act

that would make the Paris Island marine school grind look like a wand

drill. You should have had better sense, too. Why, what she was trying

to sop up in six weeks most young ladies give as many years to. Near as

I can judge she was making a game play of it, too. But of course she

couldn't last out. And it's a wonder she didn't wind up at a nerve

sanitarium."

"Honest!" says Babe, beamin' on me and grabbin' my hand. "Is--is that

all?"

"Ain't that enough?" says I.

"But that's so easy fixed," says he. "Why, I am bored stiff at these

resort places myself. I thought, though, that Lucy was having the time

of her young life. What a chump I was not to see! Say, we'll take a

fresh start. And next time, believe me, she's going to have just what

she wants. That is, if I can persuade her to give me another trial."

It seems he did, for later on he tells me he's bought that cute little

stucco cottage over near the country club and that him and Lucy are

going to settle down like regular people.

"With a nursery and all?" I asks.

"There's no telling," says Babe.

And with that we swaps grins.