The House of Torchy is a Fiction Story Book. The book tells My first jolt is handed me early in the mornin' as we piles off the mountain express at this little flag stop up in Vermont, and a roly poly gent in a horse blanket ulster and a coonskin cap with a badge on it steps up and greets me cheerful. "Ottasumpsit Inn?" says he. "Why, I expect so", says I, "if that's the way you call it. Otto Otta Yep, that listens something like it". You see, Mr. Robert had said it only once, when he handed me the tickets, and I hadn't paid much attention. "Aye gorry!" says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. "Guess you're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk checks handy?" With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds a railroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studio apartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and "Gosh!" says I, sighin' relieved. "Sure I got it". The driver grins good natured and stows us into a two seated sleigh, and off we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through the stinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a desk and a hotel register is shoved at me. Just like an old timer, I dashes off my name Richard T. Ballard. The mild eyed gent with the close cropped Vandyke and the gold rimmed glasses glances over at Vee. "Ah er I thought Mrs. Ballard was with you!" says he. "That's so; she is", says I, grabbin' the pen again and tackin' "Mr. and Mrs". in front of my autograph. That's why, while we're fixin' up a bit before goin' down to breakfast, I has this little confidential confab with Vee.