No, I ain’t been nearer the front than Third Avenue, but at that I’ve come mighty near gettin’ on the firin’ line, and the only reason I missed out on pullin’ a hero stunt was that Maggie wa’n’t runnin’ true to form.

It was like this.  Here the other mornin’, as I’m sittin’ placid at my desk dictatin’ routine correspondence into a wax cylinder that’s warranted not to yank gum or smell of frangipani—­sittin’ there dignified and a bit haughty, like a highborn private sec. ought to, you know—­who should come paddin’ up to my elbow but the main wheeze, Old Hickory Ellins.

“Son,” says he, “can any of that wait?”

“Guess it wouldn’t spoil, sir,” says I, switchin’ off the duflicker.

“Good!” says he.  “I think I can employ your peculiar talents to better advantage for the next few hours.  I trust that you are prepared to face the British War Office?”

Suspectin’ that he’s about to indulge in his semi-annual josh, I only grins expectant.

“We have with us this morning,” he goes on, “one Lieutenant Cecil Fothergill, just arrived from London.  Perhaps you saw him as he was shown in half an hour or so ago?”

“The solemn-lookup gink with the long face, one wanderin’ eye, and the square-set shoulders?” says I.  “Him in the light tan ridin’-breeches and the black cutaway?”

“Precisely,” says Mr. Ellins.

“Huh!” says I.  “Army officer?  I had him listed as a rail-bird from the Horse Show.”

“He presents credentials signed by General Kitchener,” says Old Hickory.  “He’s looking up munition contracts.  Not the financial end.  Nor is he an artillery expert.  Just exactly what he is here for I’ve failed to discover, and I am too busy to bother with him.”

“I get you,” says I.  “You want him shunted.”

Old Hickory nods.

“Quite delicately, however,” he goes on.

“The Lieutenant seems to have something on his mind—­something heavy.  I infer that he wishes to do a little inspecting.”

“Oh!” says I.

You see, along late in the summer, one of our Wall Street men had copped out a whalin’ big shell-case contract for us, gayly ignorin’ the fact that this was clean out of our line.

How Old Hickory did roast him for it at the time!  But when he come to figure out the profits, Mr. Ellins don’t do a thing but rustle around, lease all the stray factories in the market, from a canned gas plant in Bayonne to a radiator foundry in Yonkers, fit ’em up with the proper machinery, and set ’em to turnin’ out battle pills by the trainload.

“I gather,” says Mr. Ellins, “that the Lieutenant suspects we are not taking elaborate precautions to safeguard our munition plants from—­well, Heaven knows what.  So if you could show him around and ease his mind any it would be helpful.  At least, it would be a relief to me just now.  Come in and meet him.”

My idea was to chirk him up at the start.