"I suppose I must go, though," says Vee.

"I don't get it," says I.

"Oh, but I must," says she.

Durin' the next week we talked it over a lot; but, so far as I can remember, we only said about the same thing. It came out that this friend of Auntie's was one that Vee never could stand for, anyway: a giddy old dame who kalsomined her face, was free with advice on bringin' up nieces, and was a bridge and embroidery fiend.

"And I shall be left to sit around," says Vee, "bored stiff."

I knew it wasn't just a whim of hers; for one evening along towards the last, I found her with her eyelids red.

"Been cryin'?" I asks.

"A little," says Vee. "Silly thing to do when one's packing."

"See here, Vee," says I; "I ought to be doing something about this."

"But you can't," says she. "No one can. I must trot along with Auntie, just as I always have, and stay until--until she's ready to come back."

"Then it'll be a case of movin' on somewhere for the summer, I expect--Nova Scotia or Iceland?" says I.

Vee nods and lets out a sigh.

"If we was a pair of wild ducks, now," says I.

At which she snickers kind of hysterical and--well, it's the first time I ever knew her to do the sob act. Also I'd never been quite sure before that I was much more to her than sort of an amusin' pal. But when she grips me around the neck that way, and snuggles her head of straw-colored hair down on my necktie, and just naturally cuts loose for a good cry--say, then I knew.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Then she grips me around the neck, and snuggles her head down on my necktie--say, then I knew."]

I knew it was to be me and Vee from then on. I ain't givin' it any fancy name. We ain't either of us the mushy kind, I hope. But I felt that she needed me to stand by, that I could be of some use. That was thrillin' and wonderful enough for me. And as I folded her in gentle and let her turn the sprinkler on a brand-new plaid silk scarf that I'd just put up a dollar for, I set my jaw firm and says to myself, "Torchy, here's where you quit the youths' department for good. Into the men's section for you, and see that you act the part."

"Vee," I whispers, "leave it to me. I didn't know just where I stood before. But I'm out of the trance now, and I'm set for action. Leave it to me."

"All right, Torchy," says she a bit choky, but tryin' to work up a smile. "You can do nothing, though."

Couldn't I? Maybe not. I was out to make a stab, anyway. There was a couple of days left before the steamer sailed, and I'd just pa.s.sed a resolution that Vee was to stay behind. Beyond that my program was vague. After I'd walked a dozen blocks it begun to get clearer. My first stop was at the Ellins house; and when I'd succeeded in convincin' the new butler that it was no good tryin' to stall me off, I'm led into the lib'ry, where Old Hickory is sittin' in front of the big marble fireplace, half way through his second cigar. What I puts up to him is when I can realize on my share of the pirate loot.

"Why," says he, "the dealers haven't made a report as yet, but if you wish an advance I should be happy to--"

"To-morrow?" says I.

"Certainly," says he. "Say five thousand--ten--"

"Make it five," says I. "May I call up Mr. Robert from here?"

Mrs. Robert Ellins tells me this is his night at the club, so all I has to do is hop a Fifth Avenue stage, and in less'n twenty minutes he's broke away from his billiard game and is listenin' while I state the situation to him.

"Course," says I, "it would b.u.mp Auntie some, but seems to me it's comin' to her."

"Quite a reasonable conclusion," says he.

"It ain't as if she needed Vee," I goes on. "She's just got in the habit of havin' her 'round. That might be all right, too, if she didn't have the travel bug so bad. But with her keepin' on the wing so constant-- Well, I'm no bloomin' sea-gull. And when you're engaged, this long-distance stuff ought to be ruled out. It's got to be."

"The way you suggest ought to accomplish that," says Mr. Robert.

"What sticks me is where to camp down afterwards," says I. "I've been lookin' around some, but--"

"By Jove!" says Mr. Robert, slappin' his knee. "Who was it that was bothering me just after dinner? Waddy Crane! He's been pretending to be an artist, you know; but now he's got hold of his money, it's all off. He's going to start a bandbox theater in Chicago, elevate the drama, all that sort of thing. And that studio apartment of his up in the Fifties would be the very thing for you two. Wants to unload the lease and furnishings. Oh, Waddy has excellent taste in rugs and old mahogany. And it will be a rare bargain; I shall see to that. What do you say?"

Bein' in the plungin' mood, I said I'd take a chance.

"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "I'll have it all arranged before midnight.

But when and where does the--er--affair come off?"

"I'm just plottin' that out," says I. "Could I sort of count on you and Mrs. Ellins for to-morrow evenin', say?"

"At your service," says Mr. Robert.

"Then I'll think up a place and see if I can pull it," says I.

If it hadn't been for that little detail of visitin' the license bureau I wouldn't have sprung it on Vee until the last minute. As it is, I has to toll her downtown with a bid to luncheon, and then I suggests visitin' City Hall. She's wise in a minute, too.

"It's no use, Torchy," says she. "I've promised Auntie that, whatever else I did, I would never run away to be married."

And there my grand little scheme is shot full of holes, all in a second. When I get headway on like I had then, though, I just don't know when I'm blocked. I swallows hard once or twice, and then shrugs my shoulders.

"Let's get the license, anyway," says I.

"What's the sense?" asks Vee.

"I can have it to read over, can't I?" says I. "That'll help some.

Besides-- Ah, come on, Vee! Be a sport. Didn't you say you'd leave it to me?"

"But I can't break my promise, Torchy," says she.

"That's right," says I, "and I wouldn't ask you to. Let's take the subway."

I won; and when I put her in a taxi an hour later she was still blushin' from answerin' questions. I had that paper with the city seal on it in my inside pocket, though. My next job is on the Reverend Percey, the one who did the job for Mr. Robert the time I stage-managed his impromptu knot-tyin'. Course, I couldn't sign him up for anything definite, but I got a schedule of his spare time from six o'clock on, and where he would be.

"But I--I don't quite understand," says he, starin' puzzled through his gla.s.ses. "You say you are uncertain whether my services will be--"

"Now listen, Percey," says I. "I'm the most uncertain party at the present writing that you ever saw. But if I should 'phone, I want you to answer the call like a deputy chief goin' to a third alarm. Get that? And I'm payin' time and a half for every minute after dark.

See?"

Maybe that wasn't just the way to hire a reverend, but I was too rushed to think up the proper frills. I had to attend to a lot of little things, among 'em bein' this plant with Auntie's cruisin' friend, the widow. She was in the habit, Mrs. Mumford was, of pickin' Auntie up now and then for an evenin' drive in her limousine; and what I was tryin' to suggest was that this would be a swell night for it.

"But I don't see how I can," says she, cooin' as usual. "Mrs.

Hemmingway is to be a guest at a going-away dinner, and may not be home until late."