Nothin' like bein' a handy man around the shop. Here at the Corrugated
I'm worked in for almost any old thing, from seein' that Mr. Ellins
takes his gout tablets regular, to arrangin' the directors' room for
the annual meeting and when it comes to subbin' for Mr. Robert--say,
what do you guess is the latest act he bills me for? Art expert! Yep,
A-r-t, with a big A!

Sounds foolish, don't it? But at that it wa'n't such a bad hunch on
his part. He's a rash promiser, Mr. Robert is; but a shifty
proposition when you try to push a programme on him, for the first
thing you know he's slid from under. I suspicioned some play like that
was comin' here the other afternoon when Sister Marjorie shows up at
the general offices and asks pouty, "Where's Robert?"

"On the job," says I. "Session of the general sales agents today, you
know."

"But he was to meet me at the Broadway entrance half an hour ago," says
she, "and I've been sitting in the car waiting for him. Call him out,
won't you, Torchy?"

"Won't do any good," says I. "He's booked up for the rest of the day."

"The idea!" says Marjorie. "And he promised faithfully he would go up
with me to see those pictures! You just tell him I'm here, that's all."

There's more or less light of battle in them bright brown eyes of
Marjorie's, and that Ellins chin of hers is set some solid. So when I
tiptoes in where they're dividin' the map of the world into sellin'
areas, and whispers in Mr. Robert's ear that Sister Marjorie is waitin'