To worship in our Great White Way.'


"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry?

"Listens something like it," says I; "but I wouldn't want to say for
sure."

"Nor I," says Mr. Ellins. "All I'm certain of is that it isn't
sculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick.
But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest.
Anything to offer?"

"Not a glimmer," says I.

"And I suppose you could find nothing out?" he goes on.

"I could make a stab," says I.

"Make a deep one, then," says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for an
expense fund.

And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless that
he don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report.

"What's the idea?" says I. "Is it for a financial rating or a regular
dragnet of past performances?"

"Everything you can discover without taking him apart," says Old
Hickory. "In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause a