“Nice, but stupid, eh?” says I confidential to myself.  “That’s too bad.  Wonder if I’d be bored to death with a week or so up there?  I wonder what she’d say if——­”

B-r-r-r-r!  B-r-r-r-r-r!  That’s always the way!  I just get started on some rosy dream, and I’m sailin’ aloft miles and miles away, when off goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair behind the same old brass rail!  All for what?  Why, Mr. Robert wants a tub of desk pins.  I gets ’em from Piddie, trots in, and slams ’em down snappy at Mr. Robert’s elbow.

“Eh?” says he, glancin’ up startled.

“Said pins, dintcher?” says I.

“Why—­er—­yes,” says he, “I believe I did.  Thank you.”

“Huh!” says I, turnin’ on my heel.

“Oh—­er—­Torchy,” he adds.

“Well?” says I over my shoulder.

“Might one inquire,” says he, “is it distress, or only disposition?”

“It ain’t the effect of too much fresh air, anyway,” says I.

“Ah!” says he, sort of reflective.  “Feeling the need of a half holiday, are you?”

“Humph!” says I.  “What’s the good of an afternoon off?”

He’d just come back from a two weeks’ cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin’ tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin’ off on another jaunt.  Course, that’s all right, too.  I’d take ’em oftener if I was him.  But hanged if I’d sit there starin’ puzzled at any one else who couldn’t, the way he was doin’ at me!

“Mr. Robert,” says I, spunkin’ up sudden, “what’s the matter with me takin’ a vacation?”

“Why,” says he, “I—­I presume it might be arranged.  When would you wish to go?”

“When?” says I.  “Why, now—­tonight.  Say, honest, if I try to stick out the week I’ll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie.  I’m sick of the shop, sick of answerin’ buzzers, sick of everything!”

It wasn’t what you might call a smooth openin’, and from most bosses I expect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors.  But I guess Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself.  He only humps his eyebrows humorous and chuckles.

“That’s rather abrupt, isn’t it?” says he.  “But perhaps—­er—­just where is she now, Torchy?”

I grins back sheepish.  “Coast of Maine,” says I.

“Well, well!” says he.  “Then you’ll need a two weeks’ advance, at least.  There!  Present this to the cashier.  And there is a good express, I believe, at eight o’clock tonight.  Luck to you!”

“Mr. Robert,” says I, choky, “you—­you’re I-double-It with me.  Thanks.”

“My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach,” says he as we swaps grips.

Say, there’s some boss for you, eh?  But how he could dope out the symptoms so accurate is what gets me.  Anyhow, he had the answer; for I don’t stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet.  I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.