rup. First off I
explains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about the
trained nurse and the private physician.

"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am.
Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why,
I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap of
luxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar fee
to a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring a
private physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"

"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests.

Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless.

"No," says he.

Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' his
lower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, or
something like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. I
drops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:

"Well, son?"

"If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousine
will be waiting."

"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps."

"Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminal
lease. Shall I dig it up?"

"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bring
along anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entire
retinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-toned
secretary."

"Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like an
outside porter. But I'll go wind myself up."

All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff.
And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes after
I'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe,
two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin'
maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise to
the fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but I
can absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get my
mind pores open.

At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap of
back-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave in
some of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent for
one of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidation
shake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in our
general offices. Just on a chance, I pushes