every one of my bright little sallies Ira looks me over in that quiet,
thoughtful way of his, then counts fifty to himself, and fin'lly
decides whether it'll be a grunt or just a nod. Gettin' information
out of him was like liftin' a trunk upstairs one step at a time. I
manages to drag out, though, that he'd been hangin' around ever since
the buildin' was opened by the day watchman at seven o'clock.

"Well," says I, "Mr. Robert was lookin' for you to blow in today; but
not quite so early. It'll be near ten before he shows up. Better come
inside and have a comf'table chair."

He takes that proposition up with himself, fin'lly passin' on it
favorable; and from then on he sits there, with never a move or a
blink, watchin' solemn all the maneuvers that a battery of lady typists
has to go through before settlin' down for a forenoon's work. I'll bet
he could tell you too, a month from now, just how many started with
gum, and which ones renewed their facial scenery with dabs from the
chamois.

So you can see why I was some relieved when Mr. Robert arrives and
takes him off my hands. I knew from what he'd said the day before that
he'd planned to have about a half-hour interview with Mr. Higgins; but
when the noon hour struck: Ira was still there. At one-fifteen they
goes out to lunch together, and at two-thirty they comes back. It's
after four when Mr. Robert fin'lly comes out to the gate with his brow
wrinkled up.

"Torchy," says he, "how is your bump of diplomacy today?"

"It's a dimple, I expect," says I.