the button for him.

Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet little
Scotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers,
he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters than
I do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry of
how we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had been
called in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out.

I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while we
munched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out old
letters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by three
P.M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-index
of 'em in my so-called brain.

"When you're ready, Mr. Ellins," says I, standin' by with my hat in my
hand.

"Oh, yes," says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair.

And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeur
waitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolled
across Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shiny
private car with a brass-bound bay-window on one end and flower-boxes
hung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happy
little home on wheels.

Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us.

Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held my
breath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as a
steel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give us
the hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin'
under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule.

"So good of you, Mr. Ellins," he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in?
Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, you
know. This way, gentlemen."

Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Once
inside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of a
perfectly good drawin'-room--easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vases
full of roses, double hangin's at the windows.

"Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir.
Pardon me a moment."

Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' how
the light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out a
foot-rest--like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right in
the midst of it I near spilled the beans b