pipin' voice, or the meek look in them watery old eyes. For Cubbins is
more or less of a human wreck, when you come to size him up close,--a
thin, bent-shouldered, faded lookin' old party, with wispy, whitish
hair, a peaked red nose, and a peculiar, whimsical quirk to his mouth
corners. Old Hickory looks him over curious for a minute or so.

"Huh!" he grunts at last. "So you're the one, eh? But why the
blue-belted blazes did you do it?"

All Cubbins does, though, is to finger his cap bashful.

"Well, Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, "you seem to be running this show.
Perhaps you'll tell us."

"That's further'n I've got," says I. "You see, when I traced this
floral tribute business down to a window washer, I----"

"In the name of all that's brilliant," breaks in Old Hickory, "how did
you ever do that?"'

"Why, I got to thinkin' about it," says I, "and it struck me that we
had our glass cleaned every Wednesday, and if there was no way of
anyone smugglin' flowers in through the doors, the windows was all
there was left, wa'n't it? Also who's most likely to be monkeyin'
around outside, fifteen stories up, but a window washer?"

"Ha!" says Old Hickory through his teeth. "And did you do that by the
introdeductive process, may I ask?"

"No such bunk as that," says I. "Just used my bean, that's all. Then