ppened to the guest of the evenin'. They
saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were
lookin' anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.

The Baron didn't have no time for watchin' signals just then. He was
busy tryin' to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a
whole gang at the door watchin' 'em, and they was talkin' over makin' a
rush for the Baron and rescuin' him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up
against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the
things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the
piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin'.

When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his
friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the
elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the
private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like
a bung in a beer keg.

"Well, Torchy," says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, "I got it!"

"Got what!" says I.

"Why, the contract," says he.

"Chee!" says I. "Is that all? I thought you was pullin' one of his back
teeth."

CHAPTER IX

DOWN THE BUMPS WITH CLIFFY

Say, if you read in the papers to-morrow about how the Chicago Limited
was run on a siding and a riot call wired back to the nearest Chief of
Police, you needn't do any guessin' as to what's happened. It'll be a
cinch that Clifford's gettin' in his fine work; for the last I saw of
him he was headed West, and where he is there's trouble.

But you mustn't tear off the notion that Clifford's a Mr. Lush, that
goes and gets himself all lit up like a birthday cake and then begins to
mix it. That ain't his line. He's one of the camel brand. The nearest he
ever gets to red liquor is when he takes bottled grape juice for a
spring tonic; but for all that he can keep the cops busier'n any thirsty
man I ever saw.

First glimpse I gets of him was when I looks up from the desk and sees
him tryin' to find a break in the brass rail. And say, there wa'n't any
doubt about his havin' come in from beyond where they make up the milk
trains. Not that he wears any R. Glue costume. From the nose pinchers,
white tie, and black cutaway I might have sized him up as a cross
between a travelin' corn doctor and a returned missionary; but the ear
muffs and the umbrella and the black felt lid with the four-inch brim
put him in the tourist class. He was on