“But what’s his reason?” demands Old Hickory.  “Why?  That’s what I want to know.”

Ballinger shrugs his shoulders.  “I don’t pretend,” says he, “to understand the average New Yorker.”

“Hah!” snorts Mr. Ellins.  “Once more that old alibi of the limber-spined; that hoary fiction of the ten-cent magazine and the two-dollar drama.  Average New Yorker!  Listen, Ballinger.  There’s no such thing.  We’re just as different, and just as much alike, as anybody else.  In other words, we’re human.  And this Pettigrew person you seem to think such a mysterious and peculiar individual—­well, what about him?  Who and what is he?”

“According to the deeds,” says Ballinger, “he is the son of Thomas J. and Mary Ann Pettigrew, both deceased.  His attorneys are Mott, Drew & Mott.  They write that their client absolutely refuses to sell any land anywhere.  They have written that three times.  They have declined to discuss any proposition.  And there you are.”

“You mean,” sneers Old Hickory, “that there you are.”

“If you can suggest anything further,” begins Ballinger, “we shall be glad to—­”

“I know,” breaks in Old Hickory, “you’d be glad to fritter away another six months and let those International Power people jump in ahead of us.  No, thanks.  I mean to see if I can’t get a little action now.  Robert, who have we out there in the office who’s not especially busy?  Oh, yes, Torchy.  I say, young man!  You—­Torchy!”

“Calling me, sir?” says I, slidin’ out of my chair and into the next room prompt.

Old Hickory nods.

“Find that man Pettigrew,” says he, tossin’ over the letter.  “He owns some land we need.  There’s a map of it, also a memorandum of what we’re willing to pay.  Report to-morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” says I.  “Want me to close the deal by noon?”

Maybe they didn’t catch the flicker under them bushy eyebrows.  But I did, and I knew he was goin’ to back my bluff.

“Any time before five will do,” says he.  “Wait!  You’d better take a check with you.”

If we was lookin’ to get any gasps out of that bunch, we had another guess comin’.  They knew Old Hickory’s fondness for tradin’ on his reputation, and that he didn’t always pull it off.  The engineer humps his eyebrows sarcastic, while Ballinger and the lawyer swaps a quiet smile.

“Then perhaps we had best stay over and take the deeds back with us,” says Ballinger.

“Do,” snaps Old Hickory.  “You can improve the time hunting for your average New Yorker.  Here you are, Torchy.”

Say, he’s a game old sport, Mr. Ellins.  He plays a hundred-to-one shot like he was puttin’ money on a favorite.  And he waves me on my way with never a wink of them keen eyes.

“Gee!” thinks I.  “Billed for a masked marvel act, ain’t I?  Well, that bein’ the case, this is where I get next to Pettigrew or tear something loose.”