Honest, sometimes when he has started on a rampage through the general offices here, I’ve seen the bond-room clerks grip their desks like they expected to be blown through the windows; and the sickly green tinge on Piddie’s face when he comes out from a hectic ten minutes with the big boss is as good a trouble barometer as you’d want.

Even on average days, when Corrugated affairs seem to be runnin’ smooth, Mr. Ellins is apt to come down with a lumbago grouch or develop shootin’ pains in the knee, and then anybody who ducks gettin’ in range of that snappy sarcasm of his is lucky.

Not that he always means it, or that he’s generally disliked.  As soon as it’s safe, the bond clerks grin at each other and the lady typists go to yankin’ away on their gum placid.  They know nobody’s ever had the can tied to ’em from this joint without good cause.  Also, they’ve come to expect about so many growls a day from Old Hickory.

But say, they don’t know what to make of him this last week or so.  Twice he’s been late, three days runnin’ he’s quit early, and in all that time he ain’t raised a blessed howl about anything.  Not only that, but the other mornin’ he blew in wearin’ a carnation in his button-hole and hummin’ a tune.  I saw Piddie watch him with his eyes bugged, and the battery of typists let out a sort of chorus gasp as the door of his private office shut behind him.

Finally Mr. Robert beckons me over and remarks confidential: 

“Torchy, have you—­er—­noticed anything peculiar about the governor these last few days?”

“Could I help it?” says I.

“Ah!” says he.  “Somewhat rare, such moods.  I’ve been wondering.  He has hinted to me that he might start on some sort of a cruise soon.”

“Has he?” says I, tryin’ to look surprised.

“You don’t suppose, Torchy,” Mr. Robert goes on, “that the governor really means to go after that buried treasure?”

“Mr. Robert,” says I, “I ain’t sayin’ a word.”

“By Jove!” says he.  “So that’s the way it stands?  Well, you haven’t told me anything.  And, do you know, I am beginning to think it would be a fine thing for him to do.  It would get his mind off business, give him an outing, and—­er—­simplify our negotiations in that Ishpeming deal.  I think I shall encourage his going.”

“If you want to make it doubtful, I would,” says I.

“Eh?” says Mr. Robert.  “You mean—­ Well, I’m not sure but that you’re right.  I’ll do just the opposite, then—­suggest that he’ll not like cruising, and remind him that the Corrugated has a critical season ahead of it.  By the way, what sort of a boat has he chartered?”

“At last accounts,” says I, “they hadn’t found one that suited.  You see, Auntie won’t stand for a gasoline engine, and—­”

“Do I understand that Mrs. Hemmingway is going, too?” gasps Mr. Robert.

I nods.

“She’s one of the partners,” says I.  “Kind of a particular old girl, too, when it comes to yachts.  I judge she wants something about half way between a Cunarder and a ten-room flat; something wide and substantial.”