chance of perfectin' himself for the Sublime Order?"

He nods. So does Doris.

"It's a unanimous vote, Cyril," says I. "You're fired. Not for
failin' to duck the roast, understand, but because you're too gabby."

"Thank you, sir," says he, actin' a little disappointed. "I am to
leave at once, I suppose?"

"No," says I. "Stop long enough in the kitchen to tell Cook she gets
the chuck, too. After that, if you ain't qualified as Grand Imperial
Organizer of the whole United States, then the Sacred Owls don't know
their business. By-by, Cyril. We're backin' you to win, remember."

And as I pushes him through the pantry door I locks it behind him.
Followin' which, Doris uses the powder-puff under her eyes a little and
we adjourns to the Plutoria palm-room, where we had a perfectly good
dinner, all the humility Westy could buy with a two-dollar tip, and no
folksy chatter on the side.

Next day the Westlakes calls up another agency, and by night they had
an entire new line of help on the job.

What do you guess, though? Here yesterday afternoon I leaves the
office on the jump and chases up to the apartment house where Vee and
Auntie are settled for the winter. My idea was that I might catch Vee
comin' home from a shoppin' orgie, or the matinée, or something, and
get a few minutes' conversation in the lobby.