Don't talk to me about weddin's! Sure, I've been mixed up in one. Maybe there was orange blossoms and so on; but all that's handed me is a bunch of lemon buds. Not that I'm carryin' any grouch. I might have known better'n to butt into any such doin's. Long as I stick to bein' head office boy, I knows who's what, and what's which, and anyone that thinks they can give me the double cross is welcome to a try; but when it comes to sittin' in at a wilt-thou fest I'm a reg'lar Cousin Zeke from the red-mitten belt.

Maybe I wouldn't have done so bad, though, if it hadn't been for Aunt Laura. And say, mark it up on the bulletin right here, she ain't my aunt! She's Benny's. I was tellin' you how I loaded Mildred, our lady typewriter that was, into Mr. Robert's car alongside of Bashful Benny, and what came of it, wa'n't I! And how Benny's so grateful that he says I've got to be one of the ushers?

Well, it was all goin' lovely, and the gen'ral office force has chipped in and bought 'em a swell weddin' present, and Benny's tailor has built me a pair of striped pants and a John Drew coat, and Mr. Mallory's been coachin' me how to act when I chase the folks into their seats, and Piddie's been loadin' me up with polite conversation to fire off whenever I gets a show, and everything's as gay around the shop as though the directors had voted an extra dividend—when I'm stacked up against Aunt Laura and it begins to cloud in the west.

Aunt Laura is all Benny can show up for a fam'ly, and after you got to know her you couldn't blame him for wantin' to start in on a new deal. She's one of them narrow-eyed old girls that can look through a keyhole without turnin' her head, and can dig up more suspicions in a minute than most folks would in a month. I'll bet if the angel Gabriel should show up and send in his card she'd make him prove who he was by playin' the horn.

It was a cinch she didn't mistake me for no angel, when Mr. Robert sends me up there to do an errand for Benny. I wa'n't callin' for no aunts, anyway, but just leavin' a note for Wilson—that's Benny's man—when this sharp-nosed old party comes rubberin' into the front hall.

"Marie," says she to the girl, "what boy is this? Where did he come from? Who does he want to see? Don't you dare leave him alone for a minute!"

That last touch gets me in the short ribs. "Ah, say," says I, "do I look like a hallrack artist?"

"That'll do, young man!" says she. "You may not be as bad as you look; but I have my doubts."

"Same to you, ma'am, and many of 'em," says I.

"Mercy!" says she. "What impertinence!"

"Please, ma'am," says the girl, "Mr. Ellins sent him up, and I——"

"Oh!" says the old one. Then she gives me another look. "Boy," says she, "what's your name!"

"Torehy," says I. "Ain't it a snug fit?"

"Oh!" says she again, and with the soft pedal on. "You're Torchy, are you?"

"There ain't any gettin' away from a name like that," says I.

"Why," says she, doin' her best to call up a smile, "what a bright young man you are!"

"Specially on top," says I, throwin' a wink at Marie.

"Ye-es," says Aunt Laura, "I always did think that copper-red shade of hair was real pretty. Come right in, Torchy, while Marie gets you some cake and a cup of tea."

"I ain't turnin' the shoulder to any cake," says I; "but you can cut out the tea."

Well, say, inside of three minutes from the start I'm planted comf'table in one of the libr'y chairs, eatin' frosted cake with both hands, while Marie's off hustlin' up lemonade and fancy crackers.

Course, it was somethin' of a shock, such a quick shift as that. I ain't got a glimmer as to what Aunt Laura's end of the game was; but so long as the home-made pastry holds out I was as good as nailed to the spot. She seems to get a heap of satisfaction watchin' me eat, almost as much as though she was feedin' ground glass to her best enemy. You've seen that kind, that you can stand well enough until they begin to grin at you. Aunt Laura's bluff at smilin' was enough to make a cat get its back up, and you could tell she didn't really mean it, as well as if she'd said, "Now I'm goin' to give you an imitation of somebody that's pleased."

And all the time she was dealin' out a line of talk that was as smooth as wet asphalt. Most of it was hot air that she said Benny'd been givin' to her about me, and how sweet Mildred thought I was.

That should have been my cue; but I was too busy with the cake.

"Miss Morgan is such a dear girl, isn't she?" says Aunt Laura.

"Uh-huh," says I, pokin' in some frostin' that had lodged on the outside.

"You are quite well acquainted with her, aren't you?" says she.

"Um-m-m-m," says I.

"Let's see," goes on Aunt Laura, "what is it she did at the office!"

"Chickety-click, ding-g-g!" says I, makin' motions with my fingers.

"Oh, typewriting!" says she. "But I suppose she was very skillful at it?"

"Oh, she was a bird!" says I.

See what was happenin'? I was bein' pumped. It was more'n that too. Everything I knew about Mildred, and a lot I guessed at, was emptied out of me like she was usin' one of these vacuum cleaners on my head. When I gets to telling about the place out West where Mildred lived before she and her maw hit New York, Aunt Laura jumps up.

"Oh, I know some people who lived there once," says she. "I wonder if any of them knew Miss Morgan?"

With that she picks up the desk 'phone and gives a call. Did they know any Miss Morgans out there? Yes, Mildred Morgan. Really! A brother too? How interesting! Who was he, and what was he doing last? What! In the State penitentiary! That was enough for Aunt Laura. She hangs up the receiver and says to me:

"Boy, when you get back to the office tell Mr. Robert I want to see him. Come, you'd better be going now."

It was a case of "Here's your hat—what's your hurry!"

"Say," says I, "don't you go to swallowin' any tale about the Lady Mildred havin' a brother that's a crook. There's lots of Morgans besides her and J. P."

But all Aunt Laura does is hold the door open for me; so I beats it, feelin' about as chipper as though I'd been turnin' State's evidence. The more I thinks of it, the cheaper I feels. Here I'd been playin' myself for Mr. Foxy Cute, and had let an old lemon squeezer like Aunt Laura wring me dry!

Just what she's got up her sleeve about the penitentiary business, I didn't know; but I wa'n't long in findin' out. Next day there was all kinds of a row. Aunt Laura has looked up the invitation list for the weddin', and, sure enough, among the also rans was a Mr. William Morgan, with a State penitentiary address. With that, and what she'd heard over the 'phone, Aunt Laura makes out a strong case. Was she goin' to stand by and see her only nephew marry into a family of jailbirds? Not if she could help it! So she calls in Mr. Robert and puts the layout before him.

It looks like a bad mess, with Mildred on the toboggan; for Mr. Robert has said he'd see what could be done. He don't promise anything; but Benny's always been such a willin' performer that he guesses maybe he can talk him out of wantin' to get married. He didn't know Benny, though. These short, fat, dimpled boys are just the ones to fool you, and when it came to tellin' Benny about Brother Bill, that was doin' time, Benny works his lips at high speed sayin' that he don't believe it.

"Anyway," says Benny, "it ithn't Bill I'm marrying. I don't give a cuth for him. I'd juth ath thoon marry Mildred if her whole doothed family wath in jail."

"That settles it, Benny," says Mr. Robert. "If that's the way you feel. I'll stand by you."

Maybe Aunt Laura wa'n't wild, though, when she finds she can't block the game. I was handlin' the office switchboard the afternoon she calls Mr. Robert up to give him the rake-over, and the old girl warms up the wires until she near has the lightnin' arresters out of business. It comes out too that she's sore on Benny's bein' married because she sees the finish of her steady job as boss of the house on the avenue. She can't queer Mr. Robert though.

"Benny seems to have a clear idea as to just whom he wants to marry," says he, "and that's enough for me. If Miss Morgan has a brother in the penitentiary, and Benny doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't. I've known lots of fellows who wished their brothers-in-law were in the same place. Anyway, he'll not trouble us by showing up at the wedding, even if she did send him an invitation."

That's the kind of a sport Mr. Robert is. He's dead game, and when you've got him for a friend you'll know who to send for if you should ever get run in. So we goes along gettin' ready for the weddin' same's if nothin's happened. It's billed for a church hitch; but there ain't been any advertisin' done, so they don't expect any crowd. Look when they has it too—right at lunch time!

"Chee!" says I to Mr. Robert, who's running the thing, "you must be playin' for a frost. Now if you'd hire one of them Third-ave. halls and band, you might give 'em somethin' of a send-off; but it'll be hard to tell this racket from one of these noonday prayin' bees they has down in the wholesale crock'ry district."

Mr. Robert says that Benny bein' so bashful, and Mildred not knowin' many folks on East, they wanted to make it as quiet as they could.

"It'll have a pantomime show beat to death on quiet," says I. "Put me on the door, will you, so's I can keep awake joshin' the sidewalk cop?"

Mr. Robert says he thinks that'll be a good place for me, as they ain't goin' to let anyone in without a ticket and I'm used to shuntin' cranks. But say, I'm so rattled when I get inside of that suit they sent around for me to wear that I don't know whether I'm goin' up or comin' down. Honest, that coat made me feel like I was wearin' a dress. I didn't mind the striped pants,—they was all to the good,—but them skirts flappin' around my knees was the limit.

Think I had the face to spring that outfit on the folks at the boardin' house? Never in a year! Why, some of them Lizzie girls rangin' the block would have guyed me out of the borough. I just folds the thing inside out over my arm, like it was some one's overcoat I was takin' around to have a button shifted, and when I gets to the church I slides up into the gallery and makes a quick change. Mr. Robert looks me over and says no one would guess it was me.

"I'm hopin' they don't," says I.

But as soon as the carriages begun comin' and I gets busy callin' for the seat checks, I forgets how I looks and stops huntin' for some place to stow my hands. It was a cinch job. There was only a few lady butt-ins that had strayed over from the shoppin' district and smelled out a free show.

"We're intimate friends of the bride," says a pair of 'em; "but we've forgotten our tickets."

"That's good, but musty. Butt out, please," says I.

Chee! but I ain't used up so much politeness since I can remember! It was wearin' them clothes did it, I guess.

Well, I was gettin' to feel real gay, for most everyone that was due was inside, and I hadn't made any breaks to speak of, and it was near time for the Lady Mildred to be floatin' in, when I pipes off a tall, husky-lookin' gent, with a funny black lid and an umbrella tucked under one arm, gawpin' up at the sign on the church.

"Tourist from Punk Hollow lookin' for the Flatiron Buildin'," says I to myself; but the next minute he comes meanderin' up the steps, fishin' a card out of his pocket. You can bet I plants myself in the door and calls for credentials!

But, say, he had the goods. There was the ticket, all right, with the name wrote on it, and it didn't need but one squint at the pasteboard for me to break into a cold sweat. It wa'n't anybody else but Mr. William Morgan!

"Say," says I, as hoarse as a huckster, "are you Brother Bill?"

"Why," says he, kind of surprised, but not half so stunned as I thought he'd be,—"why, I suppose I am."

You wouldn't have guessed it. Not that he didn't look the brother part; for he did. He went Mildred two or three inches better in height, and he had snappy black eyes and black hair like hers. The points that goes with a striped suit and the lock step was missin', though. But how you goin' to tell, in these times when our toniest fatwads is sittin' around the mahogany votin' to raise the price of chewin' gum to-day, and gettin' a free haircut to-morrow? There wa'n't any time for me to stand there guessin' whether he'd been pardoned, or had slid down the rain pipe. Somethin' had to be done, and done quick.

"Dodge in here and wait a minute," says I. "There's some word been left for you."

With that I sneaks down the side aisle and into the little cloakroom, where Mr. Robert was keepin' Benny's mind off'n what was comin' to him by makin' him count the geranium leaves in the carpet.

"Mr. Robert," says I, luggin' him off to one side, "you want to give up predictin' the future. Bill's come!"

"What Bill?" says he.

"The one from the rock pile, Brother Bill," says I.

"That's lovely!" says he.

"It's all of that," says I.

"I hope he's not wearing his uniform still," says Mr. Robert.

"Not on the outside," says I. "He looks like he'd pinched a minister's Monday suit somewhere. But it ain't the way he looks that's worryin' me; it's what he's liable to do any minute to put the show on the blink."

"That's so, Torchy," says he. "Can't we get him out of the way somehow?"

"It's a tough proposition," says I; "but if you'll put on a sub for me at the door, and give me leave to make any play that I happens to think of, I'll tackle it."

"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "And I'll make it worth a hundred to you to keep him away from here until it's all over."

"I'm on the job," says I.

As I skips back I grabs my hat out from under a rear seat and makes straight for Brother Bill. "Come on," says I. "She's waitin' for you now. We've got just half an hour to do it in."

Bill, he looks sort of jarred and reluctant; but I has him by the arm and is chasin' him down the steps before he can ask any dippy questions. First off I thought of runnin' him up the avenue until he's clean winded; but I see by the way he strikes out that it would take more lungs than I've got to do that.

There was a lot of weddin' cabs and such waitin' round the corner, though; so I steers him into the first one that has the apron up, jumps in after him, shoves up the door in the roof, and sings out:

"Beat it! This ain't any dream carnival you're hired for!"

"What number?" says the bone thumper.

For about two shakes I was up against it, and then the only place I could think of was Benny's house; so I give him that, and off we goes.

"But I say, young man," says Brother Bill, "I came on to go to the wedding."

"Sure," says I; "that'll be all right too. Didn't I tell you there was some word left for you?"

"Yes," says he, "I believe you did. Also you said something about her waiting——"

"Right again," says I. "She'll be tickled to death to see you too."

"Yes; but the wedding?" says he.

"That'll be there when we get back—maybe," says I. "You came on kind of unexpected, eh?"

"Yes," says he. "I didn't think I could get away at first; but I managed it."

"How'd you get out?" says I. "Was it a clean quit, or a little vacation?"

"Why—er—why," says he,—"yes, it was a—er—little vacation, as you say."

"Chee!" thinks I. "The nerve of him! Wonder if he sawed the bars, or sneaked out in a packin' case?" But, say, I couldn't put it to him straight. When I gets these bashful fits on I ain't any use.

"How long you been in?" says I.

"In?" says he. "Oh, I see! About five years."

"Honest?" says I.

Then I had another modest spell that won't let me ask him whether he'd been put away for givin' rebates, or grabbin' for graft. I knew it must have been somethin' respectable like that. Anyone could see he wa'n't one of your strong arms or till friskers.

I was just wishin' I knew how to work the force pump like Aunt Laura, when we pulls up at the horse block, and it was up to me to think of some new move.

"She's here, is she?" says Mr. William.

"You bet!" says I, wondering who he thought I meant. And then I gets that funny feelin' I gen'rally has when I takes the high jump. "Come on," says I. "We'll give her a surprise."

It wa'n't anything else. I knew she'd be to home, 'cause I'd heard she was too grouchy to go to the weddin' or have anything to do with it; so when Marie let us in I throws a tall bluff and says for her to tell Aunt Laura I've brought some one she wants to see very partic'lar.

"Why," says Mr. Morgan, "there's been some mistake, hasn't there! I know no such person. Why should she wish to see me?"

"Sh-h-h-h!" says I. "Maybe she'll feed you frosted cake. It's one of her tricks."

She didn't, though. She looked about as smilin' as a dill pickle when she showed up, and she opened the ball by askin' what I meant, bringin' strangers there.

"Well," says I, "you've been askin' a lot about him lately; so I thought I'd lug him around. This is Brother Bill."

"What!" says she, squealin' it out like I'd said the house was afire. "Not the brother of that—that Morgan girl?"

"Ask him," says I. "You're a star at that."

Then I takes a peek at Bill. And say, I was almost sorry I'd done it. For a party that'd just broke jail, he could stand the least I ever saw. He looks as mixed up and helpless as a lady that's took a seat in the smokin' car by mistake. I'd have helped him out then if I could have thought how. It was too late, though, and Aunt Laura was no quitter.

"How long is it," says she, jerkin' her head back and throwin' a look out of her narrow eyes that must have gone clear through him, "since you got out of the State penitentiary?"

"Why—why—er—er——" begins Brother Bill.

Then he has the biggest stroke of luck that ever came his way; for Marie pushes in with the silver plate and a card on it.

"Thank goodness!" says Aunt Laura, lookin' at the card. "The very person I need! Ask Dr. Wackhorn to step in here."

I thought he must be a germ chaser; but it was just a minister, a solid, prosperous lookin' old gent, with white billboards and a meat safe on him like a ten-dollar Teddy bear. He looks at Brother Bill, and Bill looks at him.

"Why, my dear William!" sings out the Doc, rushin' over with the glad hand out.

In two minutes it's all over. Dr. Wackhorn has introduced Bill as his ex-assistant, who's gone West and got himself a job as chaplain in a State prison, and Aunt Laura loses her breath tryin' to apologize to both of 'em at once. Think of that! We'd been playin' him for all kinds of a crook, and here he was a sure enough minister!

Well, I gets him back to the church just in time for the last curtain, so he can see what a stunner Mildred was in her canopy-top outfit. He's all right, Brother Bill is. Never gives me any call-down for shuntin' him off the way I did and makin' him miss most of the show. As I says to him afterward:

"Bill," says I, "that was one on me. But we did throw the hook into Aunt Laura some! What?"