"Hang it all!" he explodes. "Some of these papers must go up to the
Governor for his indorsement. Perhaps you'd better take them, Torchy.
But you're not likely to find him in a very agreeable mood, you know."

"Oh, I can dodge," says I, gatherin' up the stuff. "And what's the
dope? Do I dump these on the bed and make a slide for life, or so I
take out accident insurance and then stick around for orders?"

"You may--er--stick around," says Mr. Robert. "In fact, my chief
reason for sending you up to the house is the fact that at times you
are apt to have a cheering effect on the Governor. So stay as long as
you find any excuse.

"Gee!" says I. "I don't know whether this is a special holiday, or a
sentence to sudden death. But I'll take a chance, and if the worst
happens, Mr. Robert, see that Piddie wears a black armband for me."

He indulges in the first grin he's had on for a week, and I makes my
exit on that. The science of bein' fresh is to know where to quit.

But, say, that wa'n't all guff we was exchangin' about Old Hickory. I
don't find him tucked away under the down comf'tables, like he ought to
be. Marston, the butler, whispers the boss is in the lib'ry, and sort
of shunts me in without appearin' himself. A wise guy, Marston.

For here's Mr. Ellins, wearin' a padded silk dressin' gown and old
slippers, pacin' back and forth limpy and lettin' out grunts and growls
at every turn. Talk about your double-distilled grouches! He looks
like he'd been on a diet of mixed pickles and scrap iron for a month,