Mr. Ellins,’ says I. ‘’Ow do you know?’ says ’e. ‘’Ow?’ says I.  ’Don’t I wash ‘is hoffice windows?’ But ‘e keeps at it of evenin’s, s’yin’ as ‘ow you do this and that, an’ ’e fair talks me down, Jimmy does.  But I know w’at I knows; so to relieve my feelin’s a bit I’ve been bringin’ you the flowers on the sly, Sir; meanin’, as I says before, no ’arm at all, Sir.”

“Well, I’ll be dashed!” says Old Hickory, squintin’ at Cubbins humorous.  “So you think I’m a good man, eh?”

“I’m quite sure of it, Sir,” says he.  “As I was tellin’ Jimmy only last night, ’W’y, at ’ome ‘e’d be a Lord!’ And so you would, Sir.  But, as I sees it, you’re just as much ’ere, Sir.  You build things up, and keep things goin’,—­big things, such as the likes of me and Jimmy mykes our livin’ from.  And it ayn’t just your money mykes you a gryte man; it’s your brains and your big ’eart.  I know w’at I knows, Sir, an’ I ’opes as ’ow you’ll tyke no hoffense at the flowers, Sir.”

“Not a bit, Cubbins,” says Old Hickory, smilin’ grim.  “In fact, that’s a first rate idea of yours.  We ought to have some sort of flowers here all the time.  Got many left in your garden, have you, Cubbins?”

“Plenty, Sir,” says Cubbins.  “The roses’ll be gone soon now, Sir; but there’s golden glow, and hasters comin’ on, and zinnias, and——­”

“Then you’re engaged, Cubbins,” says Old Hickory, “to supply the office with fresh ones every day.  When yours give out we’ll have to buy some, I suppose.  And you’ll give up this window cleaning job at once.  It’s too dangerous.  I can’t afford to have the only man in the United States who holds a good opinion of me risking his neck like that.”

“Thankee kindly, Sir,” says Cubbins, beamin’ grateful.  “And we’ll see w’at Jimmy ’as to s’y to that, so we will!”

“Report that in full,” says Old Hickory.  “And, Mr. Piddie, see that Mr. Cubbins’ name goes on the payroll from today.  But, by the way, where is your distinguished friend, the scientific investigator?”

“Why—­er—­why——­” says Piddie, flushin’ up and swallowin’ hard, “Dr. Bingstetter left a moment ago.”

“Did, eh?” grunts Old Hickory.  “He should have stayed awhile and allowed Torchy to give him a few pointers on evolving things from primal facts.”

“Ye-e-e-es, Sir,” says Piddie, his face all tinted up lovely.

Which winds up, as you might say, the Mystery of the Fifth Bouquet.  But, believe me, there ain’t any tamer party around the shop these days than this same J. Hemmingway Piddie.  And if the old habits get to croppin’ out any time, all I got to do is shut one eye, put my finger to my lips, and whisper easy, “Ah, go tell that to Doc Bungstarter!” That gets him behavin’.

And Cubbins, why—­he’s blossomed out in a new fall suit, and he stops at the desk every few days to tell me how he put it all over Jimmy the night before.  So that was some stroke, what?