in your off time, anyway?" says I.

And say, whatcher think? His programme is to light up the gas stove
reg'lar after dinner and fill his head full of truck out of the trade
monthlies and Wall Street columns, postin' himself on Corrugated
business.

"Gettin' ready to give the old man a few private tips?" says I.

"Not until he asks for them," says he.

"Then you've got lots of time," says I. "But it's a punk way of enjoyin'
yourself."

Maybe it was thinkin' about what a dead slow time he was havin' that
gives me the cue to stir up that lovely mess, or perhaps it was because
the thing was sprung on me so unexpected. It come one day when I was
busy drawin' pictures of Piddie on the blotter. I hears a giggle, and
squints up to see a pair that looked as if they'd just broke away from
an afternoon tea. He was a husky youth in a frock coat, with a face like
a full moon and a voice that didn't call for any megaphone. The other
was a her, and she was a bundle of tuttifrutti, the kind you see
floatin' by in sixty horsepowers, all veils and furs and eyes.

"Hello, sonny," says he, swingin' up to the brass gate, wearin' a
four-inch grin. "Where's the Great Skid?"

"Give it up," says I. "Have you tried the Zoo?"

"He-haw!" says he, with the stops all out and a forced draft on. "That's
a good one, that is! But we haven't much time and we're looking for
Skid. Where do you keep him?"

"Say," says I, "we've got a lot of freaks on tap; but we're just out of
Skids. Anything else do?"

Then she comes to the front. "Don't be such a silly, Dicky!" says she.
"It isn't likely they call him that here. Tell the young man it's Bert
Mallory we wish to see."

"You're right, Sis, right as usual," says Dick. "It's Mallory we're
looking for."

"Oh!" says I. "Mister Mallory?"

"There now, Dicky!" says she, pokin' him with her elbow and touchin' off
another giggle. "Didn't I tell you?"

"He-haw!" says Dicky. "Mister Mallory, of course."

But I didn't feel he-hawy a bit; for it was up to me to tow Mallory's
swell college chum and his sister in where the boy was jugglin' the file
cases. And them lookin' for him to be sittin' in a swing chair with his
name painted big on the door! That was when I dug up my fool thought.

"Cards!" says I. "I'll see if Mr. Mallory's got through consultin' with
the general manager."

"Oh!" gurgles Sis. "Doesn't that sound business like, though? I suppose
Skid--er--Mr. Mallory is quite a busy man, isn't