"Meanin', I expect," says I, "that you're after a sort of general
report, eh?"

"Quite so," says Mr. Robert. "You see, it's a business errand, in a
way. You go as a probing committee of one, with full powers."

"It's a tough assignment," says I, "but I'll do my best."

For I'd seen enough of Ham Adams to know he wa'n't the kind to open up
easy. One of these bull-necked husks, Mr. Adams is, with all the
pleasin' manners of a jail warden. Honest, in all the times he's been
into the Corrugated general offices, I've never seen him give anyone
but Mr. Robert so much as a nod. Always marched in like he was goin'
to trample you under foot if you didn't get out of his way, and he had
a habit of scowlin' over your head like he didn't see you at all.

I expect that was his idea of keeping the lower classes in their place.
He was an income aristocrat, Ham was. Always had been. Phosphate
mines down South somewheres, left to him by an aunt who had brought him
up. And with easy money comin' in fresh and fresh every quarter,
without havin' to turn a hand to get it, you'd 'most think he could
take life cheerful. He don't, though. Hardly anything suits him. He
develops into the club grouch, starin' slit-eyed at new members, and
cultivatin' the stony glare for the world in general.

And then, all of a sudden, his income dries up. Stops absolutely.
Something about not bein' able to ship any more phosphate to Germany.
Anyway, the quarterly stuff is all off. I'd heard him takin' on about
it to Mr. Robert--cussin' out the State Department, the Kaiser, the