“Mr. Jones, Sir,” says I, throwin’ the private office door wide open so it would take me longer to shut it.

But Old Hickory don’t intend to give me any chance to pipe off the greetin’.  He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his shoulder, and waits until there’s three inches of fireproof material between me and the scene of the conflict.

So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks mysterious at the lady typists.  Two of ’em giggles nervous.  Say, they got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders!  Not one of the bunch but what knew things was doin’; but what it was all about would have taken me a week to explain to ’em, even if I’d known myself.

And I expect I wouldn’t have had more’n a vague glimmer, either, if it hadn’t been for Piddie.  You might know he’d play the boob somehow if anything important was on.  Say, if he’d trotted in there once durin’ the forenoon he’d been in a dozen times; seein’ that the inkwells was filled, puttin’ on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that.  Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to answer a ring, and it turns out he’s forgotten some important papers.

“Here, Boy,” says he, comin’ out peevish, “this must go to Mr. Ellins at once.”

“Huh!” says I, glancin’ at the file title.  “Copy of charter of the Palisades Electric!  At once is good.  Ought to have been on Mr. Ellins’s desk hours ago.”

“Boy!” he explodes threatenin’.

“Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!” says I.  “It’s all right now I’m on the job,” and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert’s room and taps on the door of the boss’s private office before blowin’ in.

And, say, it looks like I’ve arrived almost in time for the final clinch.  Old Hickory is leanin’ forward earnest, his jaw shoved out, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he’s poundin’ the chair arm with his big ham fist.

“What I want to know, Jones,” he’s sayin’, “is simply this:  Are your folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren’t you?”

Course, I can’t break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin’ George Wesley, who’s sittin’ there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.

“Really, Ellins,” says he, “I can’t give you an answer to that.  I—­er—­I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis.”

“Eh?” snaps old Hickory.  “Sturgis!  Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?”

“Why,” says Mr. Jones, “Percey J. Sturgis.  He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this—­well, this happens to be his pet enterprise.”

“But it would parallel our proposed West Point line,” says Mr. Ellins.

“I know,” says G. Wesley, sighin’ weary.  “But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him.  He insists on pushing it through too.  I can’t very well call him off, you see.”