"Huh!" says I, indicatin' nothin' much.

"Where to, sir?" says someone at my elbow.

It's the taxi agent, who has drifted up and mistaken me for a foolish
guest.

Kind of a throaty, husky voice he has, that you wouldn't forget easy;
and I knew them aëroplane ears of his couldn't be duplicated.

"Why, hello, Loppy!" says I. "How long since you quit runnin' copy in
the Sunday room?"

"Well, blow me!" says he. "Torchy, eh?"

That's what comes of havin' been in the newspaper business once. You
never know when you're going to run across one of the old crowd. I cut
short the reunion, though, to ask about Creighton.

"The swell in the silk lid I just had words with," says I.

"Don't place him," says Loppy. "Never turned a flag for him, anyway.
Why?"

"Oh, I'd kind of like to get a sketch of him," says I.

"That's easy," says Loppy. "Remember Scanlon, that used to be doorman
at Headquarters?"

"Squint?" says I.