"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in
all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet
enterprise."

"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.

"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter
for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on
pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."

"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."

"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't
come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send
a representative to him."

"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this
Mr. Percey--er----"

"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building.
And, really, it's the only way."

Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head.
But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When
you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when
he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now.
Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over,
glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual: