"Gwan!" says I. "You read that on the floor directory. You don't know
Mr. Robert."

"But--but if you please, Sir," he goes on, "I wish to speak with him."

"You do, eh?" says I. "Now, ain't that cute of you? Think you can
pick out any name on the board and drift in for a chat, do you? Come
now, what you peddlin'--dollar safety-razors, bullpups, or what?"

He ain't a real live wire, this heavy-faced, wide-shouldered,
squatty-built party with the bumper crop of curly black hair. He
blinks his big, full eyes kind of solemn, starin' at me puzzled, and
about as intelligent as a cow gazin' over a fence. An odd lookin' gink
he was, sort of a cross between a dressed up bartender on his day off
and a longshoreman havin' his picture taken.

"Excuse," says he, rousin' a little, "but--but it is not to peddle. I
would wish to speak with Mr. Robert Ellins."

"Well, then, you can't," says I, wavin' towards the door; "so beat it!"

This don't make any more impression than as if I'd tried to push him
over with one finger. "I would wish," he begins again, "to speak
with----"

"Say, that's all on the record," says I, "and the motion's been denied."

"But I----" he starts in once more, "I have----"

Just then Piddie comes turkeyin' over pompous and demands to know what