You see, along late in the summer, one of our Wall Street men had copped
out a whalin' big shell-case contract for us, gayly ignorin' the fact
that this was clean out of our line.

How Old Hickory did roast him for it at the time! But when he come to
figure out the profits, Mr. Ellins don't do a thing but rustle around,
lease all the stray factories in the market, from a canned gas plant in
Bayonne to a radiator foundry in Yonkers, fit 'em up with the proper
machinery, and set 'em to turnin' out battle pills by the trainload.

"I gather," says Mr. Ellins, "that the Lieutenant suspects we are not
taking elaborate precautions to safeguard our munition plants from--well,
Heaven knows what. So if you could show him around and ease his mind any
it would be helpful. At least, it would be a relief to me just now.
Come in and meet him."

My idea was to chirk him up at the start.

"Howdy, Lieutenant," says I, extendin' the cordial palm.

But both the Lieutenant's eyes must have been wandering for he don't seem
to notice my friendly play.

"Ha-ar-r-r yuh," he rumbles from somewhere below his collar-button, and
with great effort he manages to focus on me with his good lamp. For a
single-barreled look-over, it's a keen one, too--like bein' stabbed with
a cheese-tester. But it's soon over, and the next minute he's listenin'
thoughtful while Old Hickory is explainin' how I'm the one who can tow
him around the munition shops.