"Then shunt her, Vincent," says I. "For you can take it from me, K. W.
is in no mood to talk with stray females at the present writing. Shoo
her."

"Ye-e-e-es, sir," says he; "but--but I wish you would see her a moment
yourself, sir."

"If it's as bad as that," says I, "I will."

Pretty fair judgment Vincent has too, as a rule, even if he does look
like a mommer's boy. Course, he can't give agents and grafters the
quick back-up, like I used to. He side-tracks 'em so gentle, they go
away as satisfied as if they'd been invited in; and I don't know but
his method works just as well. It ain't often they put anything over
on him, either.

So I'm surprised and grieved to see what's waitin' for one of our
plutiest directors outside the brass rail. In fact, I almost gasps.
Lady! More like one of the help from the laundry. The navy blue print
dress with the red polka dots was enough for one quick breath, just by
itself. How was that for an afternoon street costume to blow into the
Corrugated general offices with on a winter's day? True, she's wearin'
a gray sweater and what looked like a man's ulster over it; but there's
no disguisin' the fact that the droopy-brimmed black sailor was a last
summer's lid. Anyway, the whole combination seems to amuse the lady
typists.

This party of the polka dots, though, don't seem to notice the stir
she's causin', or don't mind if she does. A slim, wiry young female