For, of the whole force here at the General offices, there's just three
of us can carve up the mornin' mail without gettin' fired for it. And
the other two are Old Hickory and Mr. Robert.

H-m-m-m! Business of lookin' important. That's what it is to be a
private sec. But, between you and me, this slicin' and sortin'
envelopes ain't such thrillin' work; mostly routine stuff--reports of
department heads, daily statements from brokers, and so on. Now and
then, though, you run across something rich. This was one of the times.

I was 'most through the pile when I comes to this pale pink affair with
a heavy wax seal on the back. Perfumed, too, like lilacs. First off I
thought it must be private, and I held the letter stabber in the air
while I took a closer look. No. It's addressed just to the Corrugated
Trust. So rip she goes. After I'd read it through twice I grins and
puts it one side. When Mr. Robert blows in I hands the pink one to him
first.

"We're discovered," says I. "Here's someone that hints polite how
we're a bunch of strong-arms organized to rob the widow and orphan of
their daily bread."

Mr. Robert takes one sniff, then holds it at arm's length while he runs
it through. Gets a chuckle out of him, too.

"It's rather evident," says he, "that Mrs. Theodore Bayly Bagstock
doesn't approve of us at all--though just why is not quite clear."

"That's easy," says I. "This Inter-Lake Navigation that she's beefin'
about was one of them little concerns we gathered in last fall. Paid