primal facts."

"Ye-e-e-es, Sir," says Piddie, his face all tinted up lovely.

Which winds up, as you might say, the Mystery of the Fifth Bouquet.
But, believe me, there ain't any tamer party around the shop these days
than this same J. Hemmingway Piddie. And if the old habits get to
croppin' out any time, all I got to do is shut one eye, put my finger
to my lips, and whisper easy, "Ah, go tell that to Doc Bungstarter!"
That gets him behavin'.

And Cubbins, why--he's blossomed out in a new fall suit, and he stops
at the desk every few days to tell me how he put it all over Jimmy the
night before. So that was some stroke, what?




CHAPTER III

WHEN IRA SHOWED SOME PEP

It was good domework of Mr. Robert's to tip me off about this Higgins
party, or there's no knowin' how hard a time he might have had gettin'
through the brass gate. As it is, the minute I spots the watch chain
and the round cuffs and the neck freckles, I sizes him up as the
expected delegate from the fresh mackerel and blueberry pie district.
One of these long, lanky specimens, he is, with a little stoop to his
shoulders, ginger-colored hair and mustache, and a pair of calm,
sea-blue eyes that look deep and serious.