Besides, holdin' quite a block of Corrugated stock, I expect Barry figured it as a day's work when he got me to show him the last semi-annual report and figure out what his dividends would tot up to.

Outside of that he was a bar-hound and more or less of a window ornament.

But the war sure had made a mess of Barry. I don't mean that he went over and got sh.e.l.l shocked or ga.s.sed. Too far past thirty for that, and he had too many things the matter with him. Oh, I had all the details direct; bad heart, plumbing out of whack, nerves frazzled from too many all-night sessions. He was in that shape to begin with. But he didn't start braggin' about it until so many of his bunch got to makin'

themselves useful in different ways. Mr. Robert, for instance, gettin'

sent out in command of a coast patrol boat; others breakin' into Red Cross work, ship buildin' and so on. Barry claims he tried 'em all and was turned down.

But is he discouraged? Not Barry. If they won't put him in uniform, with cute little dew-dads on his shoulder, or let him wear $28 puttees that will take a mahogany finish, there's nothing to prevent him from turnin'

loose that mighty intellect of his and inventin' new ways to win the war. So when he's sittin' there in his favorite window at the club, starin' absent minded out on Fifth Avenue with a tall gla.s.s at his elbow, he ain't half the slacker he looks to the people on top of the green buses.

Not accordin' to Barry. Ten to one he's just developin' a new idea.

Maybe it's only a design for a thrift stamp poster, but it might be a scheme for inducin' the Swiss to send their navy down the Rhine. But whatever it is, as soon as Barry gets it halfway thought out, he has to trot around and tell about it.

So when I glance up and see this tall, well tailored party standin' at my elbow, and notice the eager, excited look in his pale blue eyes, I know about what to expect.

"Well, what is it this time, Barry?" says I. "Have you doped out an explosive pretzel, or are you goin' to turn milliner and release some woman for war work?"

"Oh, I say, Torchy!" he protests. "No chaffing, now. I'm in dead earnest, you know. Of course, being all shot to pieces physically, I can't go to the front, where I'd give my neck to be. Why, with this leaky heart valve of mine I couldn't even----"

"Yes, yes," I broke in. "We've been over all that. Not that I'd mind hearing it again, but just now I'm more or less busy."

"Are you, though?" says Barry. "Isn't that perfectly ripping! Something important, I suppose?"

"Might be if I could pull it off," says I, "but as it stands----"

"That's it!" says Barry. "I was hoping I'd find you starting something new. That's why I came."

"Eh?" says I.

"I'm volunteering--under you," says he. "I'll be anything you say; top sergeant, corporal, or just plain private. Anything so I can help. See!

I am yours to command, Lieutenant Torchy," and he does a Boy Scout salute.

"Sorry," says I, "but I don't see how I could use you just now. The fact is, I can't even say what I'm working on."

"Oh, perfectly bully!" says Barry. "You needn't tell me a word, or drop a hint. Just give me my orders, lieutenant, and let me carry on."

Well, instead of shooin' him off I'd only got him stickin' tighter'n a wad of gum to a typewriter's wrist watch, and after trying to do some more heavy thinkin' with him watchin' admirin' from where I'd planted him in a corner, I gives it up.

"All right," says I. "Think you could stand another manicure today?"

Barry glances at his polished nails doubtful but allows he could if it's in the line of duty.

"It is," says I. "I'm goin' to sacrifice some of my red hair on the altar of human freedom. Come along."

So, all unsuspectin' where he was goin', I leads him down into Otto's barber shop. And I must say, as a raid in force, it was more or less of a fizzle. The scissors artist who revises my pink-plus locks is a gray-haired old gink who'd never been nearer Berlin than First Avenue.

Two of the other barbers looked like Greeks, and even Otto had clipped the ends of his Prussian lip whisker. n.o.body in the place made a noise like a spy, and the only satisfaction I got was in lettin' Barry pay the checks.

"I got to go somewhere and think," says I.

"How about a nice quiet dinner at the club?" says Barry.

"That don't listen so bad," says I.

And it wasn't, either. Barry insists on spreadin' himself with the orderin', and don't even complain about havin' to chase out to the bar to take his drinks, on account of my being in uniform.

"Makes me feel as if I were doing my bit, you know," says he.

"Talk about n.o.ble sacrifices!" says I. "Why, you'll be qualifyin' for a D. S. O. if you keep on, Barry."

And along about the _baba au rhum_ period I did get my fingers on the tall feathers of an idea. Nothing much, but so long as Barry was anxious to be used, I thought I saw a way.

"Suppose anybody around the club could dig up a screwdriver for you?" I asks.

Inside of two minutes Barry had everybody in sight on the jump, from the bus boy to the steward, and in with the demi ta.s.se came the screwdriver.

"Now what, lieutenant?" demands Barry.

"S-s-s-h!" says I, mysterious. "We got to drill around until midnight."

"Why not at the Follies, then?" suggests Barry.

"Swell thought!" says I.

And for this brand of active service I couldn't have picked a better man than Barry. From our box seats he points out the cute little squab with the big eyes, third from the end, and even gets one of the soloists singin' a patriotic chorus at us. On the strength of which Barry makes two more trips down to the cafe. Not that he gets primed enough so you'd notice it. Nothing like that. Only he grows more enthusiastic over the idea of being useful in the great cause.

"Remember, lieutenant," says he as we drifts out with the midnight push, "I'm under orders. Eh?"

"Sure thing," says I. "You're about to get 'em, too. Did you ever do such a thing as steal a barber's pole?"

Barry couldn't remember that he ever had.

"Well," says I, "that's what you're goin' to do now."

"Which one?" asks Barry.

"Otto's," says I. "From the joint where we were just before dinner."

"Right, lieutenant," says Barry, givin' his salute.

"And listen," says I. "You're dead set on havin' that particular pole.

Understand? You want it bad. And after you get it you ain't goin' to let anybody get it away from you, no matter what happens, until I give the word. That's your cue."

"Trust me, lieutenant," says Barry, straightenin' up. "I shall stand by the pole."

Sounds simple, don't it? But that's the way all us great minds work, along lines like that. And the foolisher we look at the start the deeper we're apt to be divin' after the plot of the piece. Don't miss that.

What's a bent hairpin in the mud to you? While to us--boy, page old Doc Watson.

How many times, for instance, do you suppose you've walked past the Hotel Northumberland? Yet did you ever notice that the barber shop entrance was exactly twenty paces east on Umpteenth Street from the corner of Broadway; that you go down three iron steps to a landin'

before you turn for the other 15; or that the barber pole has a gilt top with blue stars in it, and is swung out on a single bracket with two screws on each side? I points out all this to Barry as we strolls down from the theater district.