“Oh, all right, Mr. Huntingdon!” interrupted Senator Far, rising, “I’m always glad to know where you stand!  Good morning!”

He hurried from the room and Enoch sighed, looked out the window, then read a half dozen letters before Abbott announced the next caller, a man who wanted his pension increased and who had managed to reach the Secretary through a letter from the president of a great college.  Then followed at five and ten minute intervals a man from Kansas who had ideas on the allotment of Indian lands; a Senator who wanted light on a bill the Secretary wished introduced; a man from Alaska who objected to the government’s attitude on Alaskan coal mines; the chairman of a State Central Committee who wanted three appointments, and a well known engineer who had a grievance against the Patent Office.  Followed these, an hour’s conference with the Attorney General regarding the New Pension Bill, and at noon a conference with the head of the Reclamation Service on the matter of a new dam.

When this conference was over, Enoch once more attacked the correspondence pile which, during the morning, having been constantly fed by the indefatigable Abbott, was now of overwhelming proportions.  It was nearly two o’clock when Jonas, having popped his head in and out of the door a half dozen times, evidently waiting for the Boss to look up, entered the room with a tray.

“Luncheon is served, sir,” he said.

“Put it right here, Jonas.”  Enoch did not raise his head.

Jonas set the tray firmly on the conference table.  “No, sir, Mr. Secretary, I ain’t goin’ to sit it there.  You’re going to git up and come over here and keep your mind on your food.  How come you think you got iron insides?”

Enoch sighed.  “All right, Jonas, I’m coming.”  He rose, stretched and moved over to the table.  The man ceremoniously pulled out a chair for him, then lifted the towel from the tray and hung it over his arm.  On the tray were a bottle of milk, a banana and some shredded wheat biscuit, with two cigars.

“Any time you want me to change your lunch, Mr. Secretary, you say so,” said Jonas.

Enoch laughed.  “Jonas, old man, how long have I been eating this fodder for lunch?”

“Ever since you was Secretary to the Mayor, boss!”

“And how many times do you suppose you’ve told me you were willing to change it, Jonas?”

“Every time, boss.  How come you think I like to see a smart man like you living on baby food?”

Enoch grunted.  “And how many times have I told you the only way for me to live through the banquets I have to attend is to keep to this sort of thing when I am alone?”

Jonas did not reply.  Enoch’s simple lunches never ceased to trouble him.

“Where do I go to-night, Jonas?”

“The British Ambassador’s, Mr. Secretary.”

Enoch finished his lunch rapidly and had just lighted the first of the cigars when Abbott appeared.