“But see here, Mr. Ross,” goes on Sturgis, “I would like to show you just what we——­”

“Daddy!  Daddy!” comes a pipin’ hail from somewhere inside, and out dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress.  It’s the little heroine of the lost nickel.  For a second she gawps at us sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house.  Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one finger in her mouth.  Percey he smiles back encouragin’ and holds out a big, friendly hand.  That wins her.

“Oh, Daddy!” says she, puttin’ her little fist in Percey’s confidential.  “It’s the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!”

As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn’t believe his eyes.  But there’s the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.’s knee and glancin’ up at him admirin’.

“Is ut so, Mon?” demands Ross husky, “Was it you give the lass the sweeties?”

“Why, yes,” admitted Sturgis.

“Then you shall be knowin’,” goes on Ross, “that yon lassie is all I have left in the world that I care a bawbee for.  You’ve done it, Mon.  Tak’ as much of the farm as you like at your own price.”

Well, that’s the way Percey J. Sturgis won out.  A lucky stroke, eh?  Take it from me, there was more’n that in it.  Hardly a word he says durin’ the run back; for he’s as quiet and easy when he’s on top as when he’s the under dog.  We shakes hands friendly as he drops me uptown long after dark.

I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory’s office next mornin’ I hadn’t doped out how I was goin’ to put it.

“Well, what about Percey?” says he.

“He’s the goods,” says I.

“Couldn’t scare him, eh?” says Old Hickory.

“Not if I’d been a mile high,” says I.  “He won’t sell, either.  And say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain’t the man behind him; Percey is the man behind Jones.”

“H-m-m-m-m!” says Old Hickory.  “I knew there was someone; but I couldn’t trace him.  So it’s Sturgis, eh?  That being so, we need him with us.”

“But ain’t he tied up with Jones?” says I.

“Jones is a dead dog,” says Old Hickory.  “At least, he will be inside of a week.”

That was some prophecy, eh?  Read in the papers, didn’t you, how G. Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times?  Couldn’t stand the strain.  The directors are still squabblin’ over who to put in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh!  Him and Old Hickory have been confabbin’ in there over an hour now, and if he hadn’t flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin’ him funny stories?  Anyway, we’re backin’ that Palisades line now, and it’s goin’ through with a whoop.

Which is earnin’ some int’rest on a pound of choc’lates and a smile.  What?