t, 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.

CHAPTER IX

HARTLEY AND THE G. O. G.'S

"Oh, I say, Torchy," calls out Mr. Robert, as I'm reachin' for my hat
here the other noon, "you don't happen to be going up near the club on
your way to luncheon, do you?"

"Not today," says I. "I'm lunchin' with the general staff."

"Oh!" says he, grinnin'. "In that case never mind."

And for fear you shouldn't be wise to this little office joke of ours
maybe I'd better explain that who I meant was Hartley Grue, assistant
chief of our bond room force.

Just goes to show how hard up we are for comic stuff in the Corrugated
Trust these days when we can squeeze a laugh out of such a
serious-minded party as Hartley. But you know how it is. I expect some
of them green-eyed clerks on the tall stools started callin' him that
when the War Department first turned him loose and he reports back to
tackle the old job wearin' the custom tailored uniform with the gold bar
on his shoulders. And I admit the rest of us might have found something
better to do than listen to them Class B-4 patriots who would have
helped save the world for democracy if the war had lasted a couple years
more.

Still, that general staff tag for Mr. Grue tickled us a bit. As a matter
of fact he did come back--from the Hoboken piers--about as military as
they made 'em. And to hear him talk about the Aisne drive and the St.
Mihiel campaign and so on you'd think he must have been right at
Pershing's elbow durin' the whole muss, instead of at Camp Mills and
later on at the docks on a transport detail. But he gets away with it,
even among us who have watched all the d