something like fourteen, and our common at three and a half don't seem
so good to her, I expect. Still, she got a double on her holdings by
the deal, and with the melon we're goin' to cut next month--"

"Suppose, Torchy," breaks in Mr. Robert, tossing back the letter, "you
answer the lady in your own direct and lucid way. You might suggest
that we are neither highwaymen nor the Associated Charities, using any
little whim of sarcasm that occurs to you."

I'd just thought out a real snappy come-back too, and was dictatin' it
to a stenographer, when Old Hickory happens to drift by with his ear
out. He stops short.

"Hold on," says he. "What Mrs. Bagstock is that?"

"Why, the peevish one, I expect, sir," says I.

"Let's see that letter," says he.

I passes it over.

"Huh!" he goes on, rubbin' his chin reminiscent. "I wonder if that
could be--er--young man, I think I'll answer this myself."

"Oh, very well, sir," says I, shruggin' my shoulders careless.

Must have been half an hour later when Old Hickory calls me into the
private office, and I finds him still gazin' at the scented note.

"Torchy," says he, glancin' keen at me from Tinder his bushy eyebrows,