"Oh, drop that!" says Old Hickory. "I withdraw it--mostly gout,
anyway. You ought to know that. And if you can beat me at this game
I'll agree to let you have your own way out there. Are you on, or are
you too much of a dub to try it?"

"Maybe I am a dub, Hickory Ellins," says Peter K., peelin' off his
coat, "but any game that you can play--er---- Which is my ball?"

Well, it was some warm contest, believe me, with them two joshin' back
and forth, and at the game time usin' as much foxy strategy as if they
was stealin' railroads away from each other! They must have been at it
for near half an hour when a maid slips in and whispers how Mr. Robert
is callin' for me on the wire. So I puts her on to sub for me with the
bag while I slides into the 'phone booth.

"Sure, Mr. Robert," says I, "I'm still on the job."

"But what is happening?" says he. "Didn't Groff come up?"

"Yep," says I. "He's here yet."

"You don't say!" says Mr. Robert. "Whe-e-ew! He and the governor
having it hot and heavy, I suppose?"

"And then some," says I. "Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the
second, and now he's trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten."

"Wha-a-at?" gasps Mr. Robert.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Mr. Ellins is layin' under the piano,--only seven,