a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a
war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like
George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of
passin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see
him.

"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so
it would take me longer to shut it.

But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the
greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them
rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his
shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material
between me and the scene of the conflict.

So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks
mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they
got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but
what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken
me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.

And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it
hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow if
anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin'
the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was
filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that.
Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to
answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.

"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellins