nd mumbled over the important
Letters he was about to dictate.

[Illustration: He talked Numbers to himself as he sped along and
mumbled over the important Letters he was about to dictate]

Those who were pushed out of his way would overhear a scrap or two of
the Raving and think he was Balmy.

The answer is that every hard-working Business Guy acts as if he had
Screech-Owls in the Tower.

Aleck had his whole Staff so buffaloed that the Hirelings tried to
keep up with him, so that Life in the Beehive was just one thing after
another, with no Intermission.

The Whip cracked every five minutes, and the Help would dig in their
toes and take a fresh lean-up against the Collars, for the Main
Squeeze was trying to be a Bank Director, and Rockefeller had stolen a
long start on him.

With a thousand important Details claiming his attention, Aleck had no
time to monkey with side issues such as the general State of his
Health or the multifarious plans for uplifting the Flat-Heads that he
could see from his Window.

Those who recommended Golf to him seemed to forget that no one ever
laid by anything while on the Links.

As for the Plain People, his only Conviction when he surveyed them in
the Mass was that every Man-Jack was holding back Money that
rightfully belonged to him (Alexander).

Needless to say, the battling Financier was made welcome at the
Directors' Table and handed a piece of a Trust Company and became an
honored Guest when any Melon was to be sliced.

All that he dreamt while sleeping in the cold room over the Store had
eventuated for fair.

The more Irons in the Fire, the more flip-flops he turned.

He never paused, except to weep over the fact that some of the rival
Procurers were getting more than he could show. It was an unjust
World.

Brushing away the salty Tears, he would leap seven feet into the Air
and spear a passing Dollar.

By the time he had the Million necessary for the support of a suitable
and well-recommended Lady, he was too busy to go chasing and too foxy
to split his Pile with a rank Outsider.

His Motor-Car squawked at the Sparrow Cops when they waved their Arms.

The engineer who pulled the Private Car always had his Orders to hit
it up.

Sometimes the Private Secretary would drop out from Exhaustion, but
the Human Dynamo never slowed up. He would shout his General Orders
into the Cylinder of a Talking Machine.

He reposed at Night with a Ticker on his Bosom and a Recei