“As close as Skid did?” says I.  “Ah, you’d have turned so green they’d taken you for a pickled string bean.”

“Oh, I don’t pretend to be a daredevil,” admits Piddie, with a sudden rush of modesty.  “Still, it is a pity Mr. Mallory did not stay long enough to find out the name of this unknown hero, and give it to the world.”

“The moral of which is,” says I, “that all heroes ought to carry their own press agents with ’em.”

We’d threshed it all out, Piddie and me, and I’d gone back to my desk some reluctant, for this jobless waiter was still sheddin’ his gloom around the reception room, and I was just thinkin’ how it would be to put a screen in front of him, when Mr. Robert and Skid comes out arm in arm, swappin’ josh about that banquet that was to be pulled off.

“Of course you’ll come.”  Mr. Robert is insistin’.  “Only a few directors, you know.  No, no set speeches, or anything like that.  But they’ll want to hear how you came to get that big order, and about some of the interesting things you saw over there, just as you’ve told me.”

I had hopped up and was holdin’ the gate wide open, givin’ Skid all the honors, and Mr. Robert was escortin’ him out to the elevator, when I notices that this Popover party has got his eye on the boss and is standin’ right where he’s blockin’ the way.

“Hey, Poppy!” says I in a stage whisper.  “Back out!  Reverse yourself!  Take a sneak!” But of all the muleheads!  There he stands, grippin’ his hat, and thinkin’ only of that lost job.

“All right,” Skid is saying; “but remember now, no floral tributes, or gushy introductions, or sitting in the spotlight for me at this—­er—­er——­ Well, as I’m a living mortal!” He gets this last out after a gasp or two, and then stops stock still, starin’ straight in front of him.

“What is it?” says Mr. Robert.  “What’s up?” And we sees that Skid Mallory has his eyes glued to this waiter shrimp.

“In the name of all that’s good,” says he, “where did you come from?”

You can’t jar Popover, though, by any little thing like that.  When he gets an idea in his dome it’s a fixture there.  “I would wish to speak,” says he, “with Mr. Ellins.”

“Yes, yes, another time,” says Mr. Robert hasty.

“But see here!” says Skid, still gazin’ steady.  “Don’t you remember me?  Take a good look now.”

Popover gives him a glance and shakes his head.  “Maybe I serve you at the club, Sir,” says he.

“Club be blowed!” says Skid.  “The last time I saw you you were serving a machine gun, six miles east of Mustapha.  Isn’t that so?”

“Oh, Mustapha!” says Popover, his eyes lightin’ up a little.  “On the hill just beyond where the bridge was blown up?  You came at the night’s end.  Oh, yes!”

“I knew it!” exclaims Skid.  “I’d have bet a thousand—­same curly hair, same shoulders, same eyes.  Ellins, here’s that lone hero I was telling you about.  Here!”