Hickory when it comes to pep in the disposition, he's the real Tabasco
Tommy."

"But I still contend," says Piddie, "that this reply should not be
sent."

"Course it shouldn't," says I. "But who's goin' to point that out to
the boss? You?"

Piddie shudders. I'll bet he went home that night and told Wifey to
prepare for the end of the world. Course, I knew it meant a muss. But
when Old Hickory's been limpin' around with a gouty toe for two weeks,
and his digestion's gone on the fritz, and things in gen'ral has been
breakin' bad--well, it's a case of low barometer in our shop, and
waitin' to see where the lightnin' strikes first. Might's well be
pointed at Peter K., thinks I, as at some Wall Street magnate or me.
Course, Groff goes up in the air a mile, threatens to resign from the
board, and starts stirrin' up a minority move that's liable to end most
anywhere.

Then, right in the midst of it, Old Hickory accumulates his annual case
of grip, runs up a temperature that ain't got anything to do with his
disposition, and his doctor gives orders for him not to move out of the
house for a week.

So that throws the whole thing onto me and Mr. Robert. I was takin' it
calm enough too; but with Mr. Robert it's different. He has his coat
off that mornin', and his hair mussed up, and he's smokin' long
brunette cigars instead of his usual cigarettes. He was pawin' over
things panicky.