but stimied for an approach."

"In Heaven's name, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "what do you mean? Mr.
Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano--why----"

"Ah, didn't Piddie tell you? The boob!" says I. "It's just golf,
that's all--indoor kind--a batty variation that they made up
themselves. But don't fret. Everything's all lovely, and I guess the
Corrugated is saved. Come up and look 'em over."

Yep! Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth,
after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs
until their eyes leak. Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of
decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin' glasses real
chummy.

"Son," says Old Hickory, as he pads into the office about noon next
day, "I believe I forgot the usual caddie fee. There you are."

"Z-z-z-zing!" says I, starin' after him. Cute little strips of
Treasury kale, them with the C's in the corners, aren't they? Well, I
should worry!




CHAPTER VII

COMING IN ON THE DRAW