him and the main stem waitin' in solemn conclave there, I guesses right
off that Piddie's dug up a new one that he hopes to nail me with. Just
now he's holdin' a little bunch of wilted field flowers in one hand,
and as I range up by the desk he shoots over the accusin' glance.

"Boy," says he, "do you know anything about these?"

"Why, sure," says I. "They're pickled pigs' feet, ain't they?"

"No impudence, now!" says he. "Where did they come from?"

"Off'm Grant's Tomb, if I must guess," says I. "Anyway, I wouldn't
think they was picked in the Subway."

And at this Old Hickory sniffs impatient. "That is quite enough comic
diversion, young man!" he puts in. "Do you or don't you know anything
about how those things happened to get on my desk?"

"Me?" says I. "Why, I never saw 'em before! What's the dope?"

"Huh!" he grunts. "I didn't think this was any of your nonsense: too
tame. And I suppose you might as well know what's afoot. Tell him,
Mr. Piddie."

Did you ever see a pinhead but what just dotes on springin' a
sensation? Piddie fairly gloats over unloadin' it. "This," says he,
holdin' up the wilted bunch, "is the unaccountable. For the fourth
time flowers of this description have been mysteriously left on Mr.
Ellins' desk. It is not done after hours, or during the night; but in
broad day, sometimes when Mr. Ellins is sitting just where he is now,