silver frame seems to help
some.

CHAPTER XV

BATTING IT UP TO TORCHY

Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair
behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living
joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of
course.

And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any
mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage
Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he
wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet
smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst
of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the
payroll--why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.

"Say, Piddie," says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in,
"who's the seed, eh?"

"That?" says Piddie. "Oh, that's old Dudley."

"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar," says I, "or is he celebratin' some
anniversary?"

And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the
same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last
fifteen years.

"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right," says I. "What is he, one of the
directors?"

No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of
eighteen per. You know the kind--one of these deadwood specimens that
stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up.
Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak
leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic
supplements.

Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest
old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and
walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded
umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears
puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into
account at all.

Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see
me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on
Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over
something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!

All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old
smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times
gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I