But this rusty bunch of works has a new variation.  He’s an old friend of the boss.  Maybe it was partly so too.  If it was—­well, I got to thinkin’ that over while the operator was countin’ the words, and so the next thing I does is to walk over to the telephone queen and have her call up Mr. Robert.

“Well?” says he, impatient.

“It’s Torchy again,” says I.  “I’ve filed the message, all right.  But, say, there’s a piece of human junk that I collected from in front of the club who’s tryin’ to panhandle me for a half on the strength of bein’ an old chum of yours.  He says his name’s Melville Slater.”

“Wha-a-at!” gasps Mr. Robert.  “Melly Slater, trying to borrow half a dollar from you?”

“There’s no doubt about his needin’ it,” says I.  “My guess is that a half would be a life saver to him just now.”

“Why, it doesn’t seem possible!!” says Mr. Robert.  “Of course, I haven’t seen Melly recently; but I can’t imagine how——­ Did you say he was still there?”

“Hung up on the rail outside, if the cop ain’t shooed him off,” says I.

“Then keep him there until I come,” says Mr. Robert.  “If it’s Melly, I must come.  I’ll be right over.  But don’t say a word to him until I get there.”

“Got you,” says I.  “Hold Melly and keep mum.”

I could pipe him off through the swing door vestibule; and, honest, from the lifeless way he’s propped up there, one arm hangin’ loose, his head to one side, and that white, pasty look to his nose and forehead—­well, I didn’t know but he’d croaked on the spot.  So I slips through the cafe exit and chases along the side street until I meets Mr. Robert, who’s pikin’ over full tilt.

“You’re sure it’s Melly Slater, are you?” says he.

“I’m only sure that’s what he said,” says I.  “But you can settle that soon enough.  There he is, over there by the window.”

“Why!” says Mr. Robert.  “That can never be Melly; that is, unless he’s changed wonderfully.”  With that he marches up and taps the object on the shoulder.  “I say,” says he, “you’re not really Melly Slater, are you?”

There’s a quick shiver runs through the man against the rail, and he lifts his eyes up cringin’, like he expected to be hit with a club.  Mr. Robert takes one look, and it almost staggers him.  Next he reaches out, gets a firm grip on the gent’s collar, and drags him out into a better light, twistin’ the whiskered face up for a close inspection.

“Blashford!” says he, hissin’ it out unpleasant.  “Bunny Blashford!”

“No, no!” says the gent, tryin’ to squirm away.  “You—­you’ve made a mistake.”

“Not much!” says Mr. Robert.  “I know those sneaking eyes of yours too well.”

“All right,” says he; “but—­but don’t hit me, Bob.  Don’t.”

“You—­you cur!” says Mr. Robert, holding him at arm’s length and glarin’ at him hostile.

“A ringer, eh?” says I.