"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"

"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for
him, that's all."

I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside
of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary
explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and
can't possibly see me today.

"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on
the jump."

"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis
cannot----"

"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must--see? If you put me
out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."

Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with
a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like
one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't
it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a
big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the
ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing
fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial,
from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter
hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin'
a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.