But somehow them things are what you expect.  And you feel that, after all, there’s only one reg’lar place on the map—­here, where you can either pay a nickel for a hot-dog breakfast off a pushcart, or blow in ninety cents for a pair of yesterday’s eggs in a Fifth Avenue grill:  where you can see lovely lady plutesses roll by in their heliotrope limousines, or watch little Rosie Chianti sail down the asphalt on one roller skate.

Uh-huh!  It’s a great place to get back to, take it from me.  Specially when you hit it like I did, a two-way winner with a full-sized portion of pirate loot, and Vee wearin’ a ring of mine.

And maybe I didn’t enjoy driftin’ into the Corrugated general offices, with everybody, from fair-haired Vincent up to Mr. Robert, givin’ me the glad hail.  Some different, eh, from the first time I struck there, ‘way back in the early days?  I was one of a bunch then, trailin’ a want ad; and when Piddie had us lined up, it looked like I’d be only an “also ran” until Old Hickory pads past, discovered my pink thatch, and has me signed on as office boy.

Different!  Why, inside of two minutes I begun to believe I was somebody.  Vincent starts it when he swings the brass gate wide, just as I used to do for bank presidents.

“Good morning, sir,” says he.  “Glad to see you back, sir.”

“Vincent,” says I, “there’s two of us, then; only I’m glad all over.”

I hadn’t counted on that row of lady typists, either.  Honest, I never faced such a battery of friendly smiles in all my more or less cheerful career.  Even Miss Muggs, who wears a business face that would have a head undertaker lookin’ frivolous, loosens up her mouth corners for a second; while as for some of the other self-startin’ queens—­well, they had me rosy in the ears, all right.  I hurries past to where Mr. Piddie is tryin’ to make his ingrowin’ dignity let loose its grip for a minute.

“Ah!” says he.  “Back from the sunny South, eh?  And how did you find Florida?”

“Easy,” says I.  “We looked it up on the map.”

“No, no,” says Piddie; “I mean, how was the weather down there?”

“No weather at all,” says I.  “They just have climate.  How are things around the shop, though?”

“Very satisfactory,” says Piddie, rubbin’ his hands.

“Bound to be,” says I, “with you and Mr. Robert sittin’ on the lid.”

With which soothin’ josh and a pat on the shoulder, I slips through into the private office, where Mr. Robert sits puffin’ a cigarette placid in front of a heaped-up desk.  When he sees me, he grins.

“Well, well!” says he, shovin’ out the cordial palm.  “So the treasure seekers have returned, have they?” And he chuckles.

“Uh-huh!” says I, doin’ a little grin on my own account.

“At least,” he goes on, “you have a fine tropical complexion to show for your trip.  Little else, I presume?”